I’ve finally read those leaflets. A couple were about coping with terminal illness. Only one dealt with the disease itself. The symptoms are pretty scary. They include acute spikes of fever, bone pain, vomiting, easy bruising, bleeding gums, bleeding nose, rapid heart rate—I’ll spare you the worst.
But these are yet to come.
For now, I’m just bone achingly tired, and the placebo of positive thinking is winning.
I phoned and canceled my appointment with the doctor. It might seem a bit foolhardy on the basis of something quite so unscientific as positive thinking but to be honest, I can’t bear the thought of sitting in that office again, and smelling that awful clinical smell, knowing what I know. I was perfectly straightforward about it. Told the receptionist—not Eunice this time—that I was doing really well. I said that unless Dr. Mackenzie had any particular concern, then I’d rather leave it until I personally felt the need to see him.
My spirit has definitely been helped by Isabelle’s call. The downside is that hearing back from my sister has raised my expectations. And now, if I’m honest, more than ever, I want to hear from Harry.
I may be reinventing the past for my own self-esteem, but I’ve always felt Harry and I had some destiny to fulfill. That he still loved me. I’ve often gnawed at the notion that if only I’d handled things differently, been a bit less hasty, he would still be here today. Or that we would have gotten back together at some point in the future. The fact that I haven’t heard from him yet isn’t a great sign but then again, he travels a lot. I’m not trying to cover for him. Most of Harry’s work is abroad. What’s more, he was always slow at getting back to me.
“How much time does it take to text yes or no or I’ll get back to you?” I’d say.
“I’m busy!”
“So am I. I still get back to you.”
“I get back to you when I can. I just don’t get back to you exactly when you want me to. That doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
You see. He would always draw me back in like that. But seriously, though? How busy do you have to be to make typing a few words into your phone too demanding on your time?
So even though the signs aren’t great, in my heart of hearts, I’m still holding out for an answer from Harry.
As for Andy and Elizabeth, who knows? I’ve said what I wanted to say and maybe that’s sufficient. But the curious part of me is still intrigued to learn how my letter was received. I’d love to have seen the look on Elizabeth’s face as she read it.
Olivia is coming over later, once she’s been to the gym with Dan. Thank God I never have to see the inside of a gym again. There are some things I have been spared.
She and Dan are great together. She’s so relaxed with him. It’s the first time I’ve really seen her being totally herself. I’m convinced he’s the one although, to be fair, I thought Richard the advertising copywriter was the one. So did Olivia! She was with him for eight years and I was sure she would marry him. She’s such a traditionalist, she’s always wanted the fairy tale. Unfortunately, Richard decided he didn’t buy the fairy tale—he only wanted to sell it—and that was the end of him. So I’m really hoping it’s what Dan wants.
Olivia sits opposite me in the armchair. Her feet are tucked underneath her green, pleated skirt.
“You’re looking great,” she declares. “And I’m not saying it to be nice. There’s a gleam about you. A twinkle in your eye. I feel something’s up.”
“I heard from Isabelle.” I flash my twinkling eyes.
“Oh, Jennifer. At last. What did she say?”
“Oh, nothing much. She was sad, of course. Said she knew something was wrong but hadn’t realized it was this wrong. I’m going to see her for dinner on Friday. She sounded keen to talk. I mean, properly talk.”
“Well, I’m pleased for you. Dare I ask . . . anyone else?”
“No. Not yet. And maybe not ever.”
“But at least you did it. That was the point, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Keep reminding me of that.” I lean forward. “Listen! I need your help with something.”
“Sure,” she says. “What are you up to?”
I get up from the sofa and wobble, slightly losing my balance. Olivia’s face goes ashen. “I’m okay, Liv, honestly. That was just a normal wobble. Nothing to worry about.”
“Of course.”
I turn on my laptop. “I’ve been planning my funeral.”
“Ohhh!” She shudders, as if she’s tasted something disgusting.
“I’m not being morose, I’m being prepared. You’ll thank me for it. I’ve opened a file stored on my desktop named For When the Time Comes. I’ll leave a reminder for you and a note of all my passwords in that table drawer. Come here and see what you think.” I sit back down on the sofa and she comes and sits next to me. I click on the icon.
“I’m loving this already,” she says.
“I realize this isn’t easy but I thought if I told you how I’d like things done it would save you worrying about what I might have wanted.”
“Right. Sorry for being negative. Bring it on!” She rests her head on my shoulder.
“I’ve written an order of service detailing all my favorite hymns and readings, in fact, anything I can think of.”
“Right. Church service, then? I thought you didn’t believe in God?”
“I don’t. But I like his tunes.”
She smiles. “Me, too,” she says. “If he’s a he.”
“He’s not a great listener—he’s definitely a he. Now, my favorite flowers are lilies and freesias and, of course, they must be white. And I would like you to give the eulogy.” I look at her and check her expression.
“I’d be honored,” she says.
“I’ve written out a few details that might help.” I show her the bullet points.
“Don’t you think I know you well enough?”
“Of course. But there may be some things you weren’t aware of. Haven’t you ever been at a memorial service and heard things about the dear departed and thought, heck, I never knew that, I wish I’d known them better?”
“Yes. But not my best friend’s.” Her bottom lip curls.
“Right!” I point at the screen. “Number one: Did I ever tell you that when we were quite young, before I knew you, Emily and I found a stray dog. We remembered we’d seen the lost poster and trailed around Hampstead for hours, dog in tow on a piece of string, until we found the address. Our parents went crazy wondering where we were, but we were heroes to that family.”
“That’s so sweet!”
“Number two: Did you know that when we were on honeymoon in Crete, Andy drove me mad to do a bungee jump with him and I didn’t want to let him down, so I did it? Even after he’d chickened out.”
“He chickened out? What a muppet! No! You never told me that.”
I think back to that moment. I’d forgotten about it until recently. It reminded me how much I did for him and that I can be brave. “To be fair, at the time I wanted to protect his dignity. Now I don’t care.”
“Oh, Jennifer.” She sighs. “This is making me really sad.”
“I know. Me, too. But we need to do it. Try and think of it as a normal conversation and forget the context.”
She makes quick short sharp breaths. “Okay, okay! Normal. This is entirely normal. Like I’m making a speech at your birthday party.”
“That’s good! Let’s think of it as a party. Being upbeat and cavalier about this helps. I’ve got some money in savings to cover the cost. I thought it would be for my central heating or a bit of a refurb but never mind. It’s for a party!”
“Gotta hand it to you, girlfriend. You seem to have thought of everything.”
I have thought of pretty much everything. I don’t need to share my wild imagination with Olivia, but I’ve even thought up funeral scenes. I have several variations. In one, Harry is there. Actually he’s always there. But in this one he’s crying and sobbing, saying he wished he’d realized how wonderful I was and how he regrets ever letting me go. He says I will be a permanent mark on his conscience. He will never get over me. I like that version. And then there’s the one where Andy is crying and sobbing, saying how he’ll miss me for the rest of his days, with Elizabeth standing next to him, brittle as a cooked chicken bone, looking away with that tight pussy mouth of hers.
Shame, isn’t it? The fact we can’t be there on the one occasion we’re center stage and might enjoy the spectacle!
“Now, you’re sure you don’t mind being in charge of arrangements?”
Olivia swivels toward me. “You can count on me. I promise. And thank you for being so straightforward. You’re inspirational.”
I close the laptop and place it on the floor. “Okay, let’s talk about something happy and properly normal. How’s Dan?”
“Not that normal, thank you! That would be dull. But he’s fine. He sends his love.”
“Do you think you’ll marry him, Liv?” She appears flummoxed and uncomfortable, as though I’ve asked if they have anal sex. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she says, but she’s so transparent.
“He’s asked you, hasn’t he?”
Her face scrunches up. “Last weekend.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was protecting you,” she protests. “I didn’t want you to be upset because it pains me so much the fact that . . .” She trails off. She doesn’t need to elaborate. “We’re going to get married next spring. I’m so, so sorry.”
Bulbous tears scuttle down her cheeks and I grip her hand and tell her I’m so happy for her and she mustn’t feel bad. But then I start crying, too, even though I genuinely am feeling happy for her.
“What happened to stiff upper lip?” she sobs. “Are we allowed to cry now?”
“I give us permission!” I say and so we do. We let it all go.
“I want to help you choose your dress,” I say, through snotty sobbing.
She gawps at me, startled. “Are you sure you feel up to that?”
“Totally. I need nice things to do other than organizing my funeral.”
I feel Olivia’s eyes burning into me. I’m disturbed to recognize the intensity of her stare. I did the same with my parents, at the end, when I would stare at them so hard, it was as though I could imprint their image on to my retina and never let it go. Now my friend’s doing it to me.
I shake off her gaze. “I want to know what you’re going to look like when you walk down the aisle. I presume you’re going to do the whole church, meringue dress, three-tiered cake thing?”
“Yes,” she says. “I want to be a huge, megastylish meringue.” We force a laugh. “And of all things, my father says he’s been waiting all my life to give me a big wedding. He’s never mentioned it before. Said he didn’t want to put me under any pressure. I can’t believe it’s been so important to him. He loves Dan. I think my mother would have loved Dan, too.” Olivia’s mother died when Olivia was in her early twenties. She was the first mother of our friends to die. Her father has never met anyone else. Never wanted to. How romantic is that? I realize no one will ever feel that way about me. The way my parents felt about each other. The way Isabelle must feel about her husband, Martin. It’s a shame that being lucky in love is not genetic.
Olivia whispers a sigh then tips me a little nod of her chin. “Jennifer. I can’t think of anything more wonderful than choosing my dress with you. That’s a beautiful, generous offer.”
When Olivia leaves, the pulsating upbeat excitement that came with her news leaves with her. The room tumbles into what I can only describe as a Sunday sadness even though it’s Wednesday. Darkness is descending early and winter is approaching far too quickly. It will soon be time to turn back the clocks.
I can’t go to bed so I lie down in front of the television. My eyes watch the screen while my head meanders, thinking about Olivia’s wedding, thinking about the fact that of her oldest friends, only Anna Maria will be there because I’ll be dead (that’s a weird thing to hear myself say even in thought) and Emily drifted away ages ago and they were never that close.
I start to wonder about Emily. Is she happy now? But then again, why would she be? She was never programmed for happiness.
Emily married her childhood sweetheart, Michael, about the same time I married Andy. We would see each other as couples fairly regularly. She seemed happy then. She would even do girls’ nights out with Olivia, Anna Maria, and me until, for no apparent reason, she became obsessed with being ill. She had always been curious about illness and death as a child, but this was different. She started to conjure up a regular potpourri of afflictions until she was ill more often than she was healthy. She would consistently cancel arrangements or simply be a no-show—which certainly didn’t improve her credibility nor our sympathy toward her. Olivia and Anna Maria despaired of her fairly quickly but having known her the longest, I felt a responsibility to accommodate her hypochondria. I played along, being nothing but supportive. I imagined it was a phase and would pass. But it didn’t. The excuses became increasingly regular and more extreme until one day I decided that colluding in her fantasy was ridiculous and the kindest thing I could do was to tell her to snap out of it. In as diplomatic a way as possible, I told her enough was enough. Years of manifesting illnesses was ruining her life and her friendships. She was becoming a recluse in her thirties—how much fun could that be? She should get help.
I never heard from her again. I tried to call her but to no avail. I even went round to see her a couple of times but the door remained firmly closed. The finality of her silence shocked and hurt me.
Now, knowing I’m dying, I’ve had a strange yearning to reconnect with my past, and Emily has been oddly front of mind. Never more so than when I was planning my funeral. After all, it was Emily who invented the funeral game.
She called it Deathopoly. It felt like a normal game at the time, no less normal than Doctors and Nurses but looking back now, how weird for children to be discussing such matters as dying and funerals. Still, how untroubled we were.
The first time I played Deathopoly was at holiday camp, a place that would make Emily homesick and morose. We were sent off every summer from the time we were both eight, together with Isabelle and John, Emily’s older brother.
Our mothers requested Emily and I share a dormitory and my mother would tell me I should look after her because she was “a child of a nervous disposition.” I always thought that meant she shook a lot, which I’d never noticed. Nevertheless, I took my role seriously.
Emily and I would share a bunk and I would always take the top because Emily said she was scared of heights. One night on our first-ever camp, when I was sound asleep, I was suddenly aware of gentle breathing against my cheek.
“I can’t sleep. Can you?” Emily’s face is right up close to mine.
“I was asleep.” I yawn. “But it doesn’t matter. Climb in.” I roll over and make room for her and she curls up next to me.
“Can we play this game I’ve invented?”
“If you want to.” I’m so tired all I want to do is sleep but, never mind, I have been given the responsibility of looking after her.
“It’s called Deathopoly.”
“That sounds awful.”
“No. It’s good. I play it with John some nights at home when I can’t sleep.” She yawns. “Move your fringe, Jen. I need to see your eyes.” The dormitory is pitch-black and we can just about make each other out from the sheen of our whites.
“So . . .” she whispers. “You have to tell me how you would like to die.”
“I don’t want to die!”
“Not now!” she says as though I’m being ridiculous. “In the future. Like when you’re a hundred.”
“I’ve never thought about it.”
“Then think about it.”
I think hard and recall something I’d heard my mother say about Victor Beasley from up the road who died in his sleep very suddenly. I whisper, “My mother says that a heart attack is the best way although she says it’s the worst thing for the people left behind. I’d feel bad about it, but I think I’d want to die of a heart attack. Preferably at a hundred and three. Because three is my lucky number.” I’m quite proud of this.
“I see.”
“And you? How do you want to die?”
Her eyelids flutter. She holds my face with her gentle hands. “I’m going to have just returned from a holiday in Africa and I’ll have been bitten by a mosquito. I’ll be terribly ill but no one will realize that I have malaria. By the time it’s been diagnosed at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases, I’ll be dead.”
“Wow! That’s amazing. You’ve really thought this through. How on earth did you come up with that?”
“It happened to a friend of my mother’s. Everyone talked about it for months.”
“You never told me.”
“I don’t tell you everything.” She sighs then jiggles my shoulder. “Don’t be upset. I tell you most things.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
She continues. “What hymns do you want played?”
“Um.” I deliberate. She’s taken this to another level. I have no idea, but I feel I should think of something just to keep up. “‘Immortal, Invisible’?” I say, for want of inspiration. “You?”
“‘Amazing Grace.’ And I want my brother John to play the guitar and his friend Michael to sing.”
“That sounds so nice. And Michael is so handsome.”
“He is. And he has a lovely voice.”
“You’re good at this, Em.”
“Now tell me what you would say in my eulogy,” she says. “I want you to give my eulogy, you know.”
“And I want you to give mine.”
“That won’t happen.” She sighs with conviction. “Because I’m going to die first.”
Emily liked to hear her eulogy because hearing nice things said about her made her cry and then she’d fall asleep.
As I told her all the lovely things I would say, she’d sniffle woefully into my pillow until the tears merged into the gentle sound of her steady breathing with the occasional rattle of a latent sob.
Once I knew she was settled, I would climb down to her bunk and lie there, wide awake, staring up at my mattress, thinking about Emily and how clever she was.
She got one thing wrong though, didn’t she? I’m the one who will die first.