I lie on my bed till there are thoughts in my head, but not the right thoughts, not grief or love or emotion, just curiosity. It suddenly seems important that I know what it was. She was sick, I could tell that when I spoke to her, what, five weeks ago? She wasn’t that sick. Not this sick. Not dying.
She said she had a rash. No, an itch. Something like that. The bees, she tried to use bees to cure it. So she had something for a while, a few months at least.
An itch — that’s all I know. I will my brain to remember everything I learned in three years of medicine. Diseases that itch. Diseases that itch that kill. It’s hopeless. It could be dozens of things. Maybe if I was a doctor I would know. Maybe if I hadn’t dropped out and run away I would know. Maybe if I was there when it started I would have known, and done something, and Mum would be fine. I would have seen her itching and said Mum, I know exactly what’s wrong, it’s serious but it’s ok, we’re going to fix it and I would have fixed it. If I’d been there that’s what would have happened, rather than … than Kylie having to do what I should have been there to do.
Oli must have known she was sick. That’s why he told me to call her. Did he know she was dying? He couldn’t have. He would have said. He’d never keep that from me. Why would Mum keep that from Oli? She didn’t know. But she had to. She knew something or she wouldn’t have asked me to come home. But she couldn’t have known she had mere weeks. She would have asked me to come back.
But she did — she did ask.
Last night, the phone calls, Oli. I turned it off. I was too tired. What if she was still alive? That’s why he was calling. She was dying and I turned it off because I wanted to sleep and Mum was still alive. I could have said goodbye and told her I’m sorry for not being everything she deserved and that I love her even though I left and I think about her all the time and she would have forgiven me for leaving, and if I could just have those few minutes, those few seconds so she knew I loved her …
I grab my phone but my hands are shaking. I find it hard to press the button down that turns it on. Eventually the phone makes a sound then I watch a little blue wave appear on the screen, an ethereal wave that ripples in a void, then it turns to white and the phone starts vibrating. For every missed call it vibrates and I wonder if it will ever stop.
I press a button and scroll through the list of missed calls throughout last night, then this morning. After a lull my phone vibrates a final time and a symbol pops up telling me I have voice mail. A single message. I dial the number and listen.
There’s silence for a long time. I wonder if it’s worked but I listen intently and I can hear something, a whistle, I think, but then something takes me back to childhood and I recognise it, not a whistle, the plaintive whimper of my little brother.
“Mum …” says the voice, and that’s all he says.
“Here, let me take it,” says another voice. “Nick, it’s Jen.” I can hear the waver, but she’s so strong, Jen. “This is really hard, we didn’t want to leave a message, but you need to know. Your mum was sick. It was really fast. It was cancer. And she didn’t tell anyone because she’s …”
Jen swallows and takes a deep breath. “Umm, I think she didn’t want anyone to pity her or … She’s gone, Nick. She wasn’t alone. She was at home, with friends. She called Oli and … she asked us not to come and she didn’t want you to worry. She said to tell you she loves you more than anything, and it’s ok, none of it matters anymore, to … to forgive him … and …”
I hear Jen crying then an electronic beep.