If You Were Here

by Alice Peterson

  ‘Fine, but at some point both she and Mum should have—’

  ‘Yes!’ James stands up and faces me full on. ‘They should have. But when people are terrified or anxious, denial is their biggest defence; often it’s their only defence.’ He lowers his voice, ‘just as you’re in denial now, Flo.’

  I edge away from him. ‘I’m not in denial.’

  ‘Look, let’s not argue about this,’ Maddie intervenes, standing between us like a referee.

  ‘You’re eating breakfast and going to work as if this isn’t a big deal,’ James asserts.

  ‘I’m making a positive plan.’

  ‘But your plan—’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Maddie warns him.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re taking Granny’s side, James,’ I say, close to tears.

  ‘I’ll always be on your side, Flo, always,’ he asserts. ‘But all I’m trying to say is, maybe when you’re grieving and terrified of losing another person close to you, things aren’t as straightforward as you think. The last thing Granny Peg would have wanted was to hurt you.’

  ‘Well, she should have thought about that sooner. You can’t go wrong if you tell people the truth,’ I state, ‘right from the start.’

  ‘If it’s that simple then why not tell Theo?’ James says.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I say, leaving the room.

  ‘That was harsh,’ I overhear Maddie scold him. ‘Just leave her. You’ve said enough.’

  *

  I take the bus to work, relieved to be alone and out of the house.

  ‘You are number five in the queue,’ says an automated voice before I hear Handel’s Water Music. ‘Thank you for waiting, your call is important to us’.

  As we approach Hammersmith Broadway: ‘You are number three in the queue’.

  My phone warns me I have less than ten per cent battery power. I was so angry with James I forgot to charge it this morning. ‘You are number one in the queue.’

  Come on.

  ‘Bridge View Surgery, how can I help?’ the perky receptionist says.

  ‘Hi, yes, I need to see a doctor, please, today, as soon as possible.’

  I hear her tapping some keys. ‘Bear with me.’

  Handel’s Water Music returns.

  She comes back on to the line. ‘Sorry about the wait, the system’s been playing up. Right. It looks like we have one last slot left with Dr Harris.’

  ‘I’ll take it. What time?’ I wait. ‘Hello?’ I shake my phone. ‘Hello?’ My mobile screen goes black.

  I stare out of the window, trying not to scream, especially when I realize I have missed my stop.

  15

  Peggy

  It’s twenty-four hours since I last spoke to Flo. I’m cleaning the house – like I always do on a Monday morning – but for once it’s not a chore, more of a welcome relief to keep busy. Yet nothing can stop me from thinking about Flo.

  Did she sleep? I hope better than I did. I can’t imagine she went to work?

  I turn off the vacuum cleaner, the sitting room carpet now spotless. My furniture has never looked so glossy and new. I tackle the bathroom next.

  I know Ricky is right, I think, as I polish the taps until they are gleaming. I must give her some space.

  Next I move on to the sink, bath, mirror and the floor, and before I know it I’m rifling through the kitchen cupboards, chucking out cans of tinned peaches that expired back when Tim was still alive. They were his favourites.

  I used to love baking cakes for Tim and Beth, and cooking with Flo. In fact, I used to love cooking full stop, but there seems little point when there is no one across the table who’s going to say ‘This is delicious, Peggy, what’s in the sauce?’ When Beth was growing up, Tim used to say to her, ‘Your mother is the best cook in London, isn’t she?’

  ‘No, Papa, in the world,’ Beth would finish.

  After I have finished in the kitchen, I decide to tackle the bookshelves in the sitting room, rearranging my novels into alphabetical order. I fetch the mini ladder out of the downstairs broom cupboard and soon books are scattered across the floor.

  I come across a collection of old edition Daphne du Maurier novels that Tim gave me one Christmas, not long after we married. He knew I was beguiled by her stories and he used to read them to Beth, too, when she was a young girl. I can see Beth now, sitting cross-legged by the fireplace with her dad after a fun day on the beach building sandcastles and burying him in the sand, listening to every word of Rebecca intently.

  Those days were precious.

  I stop when I see an old copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. I recall Tim saying to me one night in bed, in the early years of his HD diagnosis, ‘Peg, when I can no longer read, will you read to me?’ I imagine I’d reproved him for bringing up such a time, but he’d continued, ‘I want to read all the classics like To Kill a Mockingbird or Catcher in the Rye. Promise me, Peg.’

  And so I did. I spent hours reading to Tim, and those days were precious too.

  I take a deep breath.

  Time is an odd thing. When Tim was unwell and at home day after day, time often crawled by. My husband rushing out the door to get to work or to the airport with barely a second to kiss me goodbye seemed as if it had happened in another life. The idea of me working in an office seemed impossible while I was shaving my husband and dressing him for another day in front of the television, or a trip to the park in his wheelchair. And yet, here I am, almost twenty-five years since his death, wondering where the time has gone. In many ways, those days I spent reading to Tim feel like yesterday.

  16

  Flo

  When I arrive at the office I head upstairs immediately, barely acknowledging Simon and Natalie who work on the ground floor sales desk. We’re only a small team – six in total. I sit down and pick up the telephone. Thankfully, my boss, Harriet, who sits opposite me, hasn’t arrived yet.

  ‘Bridge View Surgery, how can I help?’ says the receptionist again, this time not sounding quite so perky.

  ‘Oh, yes, I called earlier but we got cut off.’ I hear someone coming upstairs.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re fully booked now.’

  ‘It’s an emergency.’

  ‘Right. What’s the problem?’

  Natalie approaches my desk. Natalie is twenty-eight and is originally from Poland, her long, iron-straight blonde hair sweeping down her shoulders. She wears dark-rimmed glasses for fashion rather than for need, having always fancied that sexy librarian look.

  ‘It’s private,’ I say to the receptionist, ‘but serious.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I mouth to Natalie.

  ‘Can you describe your symptoms?’

  ‘I don’t have any, but I’m anxious to have a blood test, just in case.’

  ‘Are you pregnant?’ Natalie mouths back.

  ‘A blood test for what?’ the receptionist continues, clearly confused by my cryptic code.

  ‘When’s the next available slot?’ I ask.

  ‘I suggest you ring back first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t you book me in now?’

  ‘I’m sorry, the system doesn’t allow me to do that. What I can do is put you down on a list and ask the duty doctor to call you.’

  ‘I need to see someone now. I just need a test.’

  Her patience is wearing thin – like mine. ‘Would you like me to put your name down on the list or not?’

  *

  It’s almost the end of the working day and I’m helping out downstairs since we’re short-staffed, talking to a client about a possible trip to Cambodia and Vietnam.

  ‘The ancient temples are fascinating,’ I tell the woman who looks in her mid-thirties, dyed red hair.

  What am I going to do? The duty doctor called back and said I needed to see a genetic counsellor before I can take the test. I can just hear James saying ‘I told you so’.

  ‘Yawn,’ says the woman, rolling her eyes.

  ‘How about a river-cruise, then?’

&nb
sp; ‘Seasick. I also get really nervous flying,’ she says. ‘Can they upgrade me to First Class?’

  There’s nothing Rodney Sinclair can’t do, I recall Theo saying to me the last time he was unwell. He’s a genius. Sorted out the mole on my back in no time. I’ll give you his number.

  I spring out of my chair. ‘Natalie, can you . . .’ I don’t even finish my sentence before I’m outside, calling his number. There’s no queue, no Handel’s Water Music. I’m put through to his secretary, who gives me an appointment straight after work.

  Natalie joins me outside. ‘Flo, that was rude,’ she reproves. ‘We’re not supposed to have our phones anywhere near us when we’re with a client.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You look exhausted,’ she says, clearly noticing my distress.

  ‘Listen, I might go home, do you mind?’

  ‘You’re my boss.’

  ‘Not that you’d know it.’ Finally I smile.

  ‘I’m worried about you,’ she says as she follows me back into the office. ‘Are you nervous about leaving?’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly, just tired. I’ll do some work from home. Is she going to Cambodia?’ I ask, gathering my jacket and handbag.

  ‘I suggested ten days in the Caribbean instead and suddenly she wasn’t nearly so nervous about flying.’

  ‘Funny that,’ I say, leaving the office, strengthened by the hope that Rodney Sinclair will be able to solve all my problems and give me a blood test tonight.

  17

  Flo

  ‘Come in,’ says Dr Sinclair, tall and lean, dressed in a suit and a dapper navy and white spotted tie, his silvery grey hair giving him a note of distinction. ‘I gather you know Theodore? A wonderful chap, fit as a fiddle. I think he only comes here for the fatherly advice and the gin and tonic.’

  Everything in the room is plush, from the chintz curtains to the ornate chandelier hanging from the tall moulded ceiling. Dr Sinclair’s mahogany desk is at the far side of the room, overlooking Harley Street.

  No wonder Theo likes it here. If you have to be ill, at least be ill in style, he’d say. Dr Sinclair gestures for me to take a seat in the leather armchair. ‘Now, how can I help you, young lady?’

  My appointment is only twenty minutes so I waste no time in telling him. It’s surprisingly easy telling a stranger, especially if you need something from them in return.

  ‘Huntington’s Disease’ he repeats, narrowing his eyes. ‘I haven’t come across anyone at risk for a while.’ He swivels round to his bookcase, filled with heavy volumes of medical books. He produces one of them and leafs through the pages.

  ‘I was hoping I could take a blood test today.’

  He looks up at me. ‘Today?’

  I nod, determined to appear calm.

  ‘If I recollect, most people don’t get tested for it. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Theo and I are engaged.’ I show him my ring.

  ‘Wonderful news; many congratulations.’

  I smile. ‘Thanks, it’s all very exciting. Anyway, we want a family at some point so I’d rather know now than put it off.’ Somehow I feel involving Theo will help my case. ‘I’m joining him in New York, so it would be great to find out before I leave.’

  ‘Right. I see.’ He takes a sheet of cream headed paper from his leather in-tray. ‘You seem to be of sound mind.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  He picks up his gold fountain pen and says out loud as he writes, ‘You want to be tested because you want to be able to make an informed decision about planning a family.’ He stops writing, peers at me again. ‘And you are aware of the implications of either a negative or positive result?’

  I nod. ‘Yes. I’ve spoken about it in depth to my grandmother. You see, my grandfather and my mother had HD. Nothing can change the result, but at least if I know I can plan.’

  He looks at me as if that makes complete sense. At last someone understands.

  With relief, I watch as he continues to write. ‘So does this mean I can take the test today?’ I ask.

  ‘I see no reason why not. “I, Dr Rodney Sinclair,’ he says, jotting it down, ‘have discussed the various considerations of genetic testing with Ms Florence Andrews. I can confirm she is of sound mental state to go ahead”. Voila!’ I watch him sign his name on the bottom of the piece of paper before asking me to approve the following:

  I, Florence Andrews, consent to the genetic testing for Huntington’s Disease. I am aware of the implications of this test, but wish to proceed.

  He hands me his pen.

  I don’t allow myself to dwell on what Maddie or James said to me this morning. Or what Mum would think.

  Did she have genetic counselling? I don’t care if she did or not. No one in my family has any right to judge the choices I make anymore.

  Dr Sinclair puts on a pair of plastic gloves before he attaches a tourniquet around my upper arm. Gently he taps the inside of my arm to feel for a vein before the needle pierces my skin, blood filling the tube.

  He places cotton wool over the injection site, telling me to press hard to stop the bleeding. ‘When do you think we’ll get the results?’

  ‘I’m writing “Urgent”,’ he informs me, before folding the consent form into two and adding it to the clear plastic bag with the purple-capped blood test tube. ‘It should take no more than a couple of days, Florence, maybe less.’

  ‘Will you call me the moment you hear?’

  ‘I’ll call, but I’d also like you to come to the clinic to discuss the results.’ He leads me towards the door. ‘Please send my regards to Theodore.’

  ‘Of course.’ I nod. ‘And please could you keep this appointment confidential.’

  ‘But Theodore surely knows you’re here?’

  ‘If you could keep it between us I’d be grateful,’ is all I say, in a voice I hardly recognize as my own.

  *

  On my way home, I touch the plaster on my arm, reassuring myself, not for the first time, that if I don’t find out if I’m gene positive or not, I’ll always assume the worst. I’ll wake up every single morning wondering if this is the day I might get symptoms, and I don’t want to live like that.

  I’m going to get the results. They will be negative. And then I can pack my bags and begin my new life in a city far away from here.

  18

  Peggy

  Dr Amanda Harding leads me into her office, dressed in an elegant cream summer blouse with tailored linen trousers. She sits down at her desk. She’s in her late fifties, or perhaps even early sixties – I find age hard to tell.

  We look at one another inquisitively. I imagine it takes a certain type of person to be a genetic counsellor. Having to meet people like my Beth on a daily basis, people dealing with life-changing decisions and the prospect of living with HD or any other condition.

  I’m certain she is assessing me just as much as I am her. She must have heard a fair amount about me from Beth, which I find unnerving. Surely she often wondered what kind of a dragon I was that Beth couldn’t confide in me.

  With shame, I glance at the empty chair next to mine, thinking of all those lost years when I could have been here holding my daughter’s hand.

  The past is gone, I hear Ricky’s voice inside my head. The only thing that’s up for grabs is the future.

  ‘It’s kind of you to see me at such short notice,’ I say, realizing how lucky I am that Dr Harding gave me an appointment less than forty-eight hours after I called her secretary to explain, in detail, my situation.

  The idea to see Dr Harding came to me, as clear as daylight, when I was rearranging my novels into alphabetical order on my bookshelf. That’s it! I’d almost fallen off the ladder wondering why on earth I hadn’t thought about it before! I knew Beth must have confided in Dr Harding so if anyone knew my daughter’s intentions it would be her. Perhaps she could answer the questions that kept me up at night, the most pressing being had Beth ever planned to tell Flo and me the truth.


  I explained my plight to Dr Harding’s secretary, my normal reserve going out the window. The secretary had understandably been most wary of me, saying she’d have to talk this through with Dr Harding, that this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill situation. You can say that again. However, she warmed up considerably when she spoke to me for the second time, saying Dr Harding would like to see me, and as fate had it, there had been a cancellation.

  ‘I’m glad I tracked you down.’ Five years ago, Dr Harding moved from London to a hospital in Oxford. ‘Do you mind?’ I gesture to my notepad and pen. I was frightened I wouldn’t remember to ask all the questions I had, so I jotted down a list with Ricky last night.

  ‘Of course. How can I help?’ Her voice is calm, her manner poised.

  ‘Well, I wonder if you could talk to me about my daughter, Beth, and her sessions with you. There are things I need to know.’

  ‘Generally, that would be confidential, but in this case, now that Beth is no longer with us’ – her expression is full of compassion – ‘and knowing how much your daughter would want me to help you, in whatever way I can . . . is there anything in particular you’d like to talk about?’

  I decide to tell her everything, cutting no corners.

  ‘So, you see, Florence is terrified of her future, and although I’m in no position to judge Beth for keeping secrets, how do I begin to explain to Flo why her mother, the only person in the world she believed she could trust, never told her?’ I stop to catch my breath and compose myself. ‘Did you encourage Beth to say something to Flo?’ I ask, trying not to sound too critical.

  ‘Yes. We generally encourage people to talk to their close friends and family.’

  ‘So why didn’t she?’

  ‘Fear. I see this far too often, Mrs Andrews. Fear drives a person to silence. I stressed to Beth that, in our experience, honesty is usually the best way forward. I told her that research suggested young people cope far better when told earlier about HD in their family.’

  ‘So why didn’t she listen to you?’ I ask, before asking the question I’d been longing to hear the answer to. ‘Dr Harding, why did she take the test? Why find out?’