Here’s the science bit. Concentrate.
At some point since her last bout of chemo, malignant cancer cells spread to my mum’s hip bone and her spinal cord. Her bones are crumbling, she has too much calcium in her bloodstream and she’s in constant pain. She’s constipated and losing bladder control. In short, Mum’s forty-year-old body has completely turned against her.
She is dying.
How could I have not seen this? I’m so stupid! Am I that self-centred? It had struck me as a little odd that she was still looking so pale and skinny, but I allowed myself to believe it was just another cold, that it was all totally normal for her to be so frail. I pushed it under a mental rug. I didn’t want to see it. I pretended.
The hospital kept her in on the Tuesday night, but Margot brought her home the next day. She spent the rest of half-term week in bed or hobbling around with a crutch. Her hips are breaking up. It’s too awful to think about for long.
I throw myself into being a perfect little nurse. I pull up carrots and parsnips and cabbages from the vegetable patch to make broth. I get Margot to kill and pluck the chicken. You have to draw a line somewhere, right? I read to her and help her to the bathroom. At least now I know the truth I can help, reverting back into nurse mode. It’s babyish, but I suppose a part of me thinks if I take good enough care of her she might not … well, die.
Margot and I … cooperate, I guess. For Mum’s sake. We’re finally on the same page. I can play nice if she can. All the days roll into one. I make up an excuse to skip Danny’s Halloween night, and, before I know it, it’s Sunday and I haven’t even started my holiday assignments. ‘I’ll get Margot to write you a note,’ Mum says from under a blanket on the sofa. ‘Christ, Fliss, I’ve written you excuse letters for less. You once had a period every week for a month so you didn’t have to do swimming.’
‘No. I don’t want people feeling sorry for me.’
‘Your classmates won’t see the letter, will they?’
‘Yeah, but if don’t hand in any homework, they’ll ask why.’
Mum shrugs. ‘Fine, better get on with it then.’
I hate having to go back to school. I’m terrified to leave Mum with Margot in case something happens while I’m away. It seems so pointless being at school when I should be spending as much time as possible with Mum. Every time I think about what’s going to happen, a different physical reaction hits me: sometimes I can’t breathe; I get stabbing pains in my chest; my palms sweat; I feel nauseous. If I cling on to her, with all ten fingers, she can’t go.
I can’t imagine her not being here. It makes as much sense as trying to imagine what it’d be like to be a stapler or something. At the moment it feels a lot like trying to breathe underwater. I can only hold my breath for so long. I don’t know what’ll happen when I can’t any more.
‘How was your holiday?’ Danny asks as we sit on a bench near the water fountain before registration. ‘Sucks you were ill.’ I momentarily forget I told him I was sick last Friday.
‘It wasn’t too bad,’ I lie. ‘How was yours? Did you meet James Off The Internet?’
‘No,’ he says with a pout. ‘He couldn’t afford the train fare to Leeds.’ Danny spent some of the holidays with his family up north while Bronwyn was on a silent retreat with her father.
‘Oh, that sucks.’
‘I know. I’d got myself all fired up. We’ve spoken since, but if I wanted a pen pal I’d write to a prisoner, you know what I mean?’ I give his arm a friendly rub. ‘Oh, I don’t wanna talk about it,’ he says, turning to Bronwyn. ‘How was the retreat?’
‘We retreated from the retreat,’ Bronwyn says with a smile while devouring a banana. ‘Dad lasted a day and a half. I knew there was no way he could stay silent for five days!’
‘So where did you end up?’ Danny asks.
‘We went to a caravan park in Tenby. It was pretty cool. We played Monopoly and Trivial Pursuit all week. And talked. A lot.’
I almost tell them about Mum. It’s right on the tip of my tongue, but I know that if I open a floodgate I won’t be able to shoulder it shut. It’s some relief just to be with them again. I try to take strength from that.
I try to focus in first-period textiles but I hardly hear a word Mrs Blackwood is saying. We’re supposed to be designing accessories based on the work of existing artists. I opted for a range of Lichtenstein cushions, thinking it’d be easy, but looking around, I see half the class has had exactly the same idea. I knew I should have picked Dali.
Instead I stare out of the window, watching a fat spider with almost tiger-like markings in her web. A daddy-long-longs is tangled up, struggling to fly free. Give it up, I think. The struggle only makes it worse. Sure enough, the spider just watches and waits for her prey to tire before she moves in for the kill. I think of Mum and her five years of fighting. Would it be easier if she had just lain down and let death take her?
I don’t even realise I’m crying until a tear plops onto my coursework and the ink turns into a black cloud. I screw my eyes shut. I can’t break down in class.
‘Fliss.’ Mrs Blackwood looms over my desk. I wonder how long she’s been standing there. She’s a tall, angular woman with a badger stripe in her hair and dresses straight out of the eighties – all shoulder pads and elastic belts. ‘Can I see your homework, please?’
‘Oh. Sure.’
I open up my A3 portfolio folder and display my Lichtenstein mood board. I made a special trip to the library to photocopy images of pop art as inspiration. ‘Is this it?’ she asks. That phrase is never good. No one ever looked at something amazing and said, Is this it?
‘Erm … yes.’
‘Fliss, you had a whole week and this is what you managed to produce?’
‘I’m sorry … I –’ I can’t think of a good lie quickly and I don’t want to tell her the truth.
She interrupts. ‘Where are the fabric samples? The market research? Initial sketches? Fliss, this coursework counts towards your final grade.’
‘I know, it’s just that—’
‘This is an embarrassment. I don’t know how you dare hand this in, to be honest.’
‘Because I don’t care!’ The words are out of my mouth before my brain filter kicks in. ‘I just don’t care!’
Her mouth hangs open. The rest of the class falls gravely silent. I grab the coursework out of her hands, scrunch it up and slam-dunk it in the bin as I flee from the classroom. I don’t wait for whatever token punishment she has to dole out; I just need to be out of there before I erupt and everyone sees. No one follows me – because I have no friends, I think, full of misery.
My feet guide me in the direction of the library, like I’m on autopilot. There’s still about half of the lesson left and I have nowhere else to go. I race down the stairs and punch through the doors. Sometimes there are English or drama lessons in here, but it seems deserted now, thank God. I flop down onto a beanbag in the corner, draw my knees under my chin and breathe for the first time in about three minutes.
What the hell did I just do? I screamed at a teacher. Total exorcist moment. Jesus. I cover my mouth with my hands and try to force the room to stop spinning. I can feel the adrenaline zooming through my veins. I need everything to freeze-frame, just for a second, while I reboot.
‘Fliss?’ Thom emerges from his little office. He’s the only thing making being at school even slightly worthwhile. ‘Are you OK?’ He leaves his pile of books on his desk and heads over.
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just shake my head.
‘What’s wrong? It’s not Megan Jones again, is it?’
‘No. No, it’s not her.’
He pulls another beanbag over and sits next to me. ‘Then what is it? Why aren’t you in class?’
I look into his eyes and feel better already. ‘I screamed at Mrs Blackwood and threw my coursework in the bin.’
‘You did what?’ He’s shocked but can’t keep a little smirk off his lips.
I somehow manage to laugh and cry at the same time. I sound like a dolphin.
‘Fliss, what’s up? I won’t tell anyone, I promise.’
This time the words do make the dive. ‘My mum,’ I say. ‘My mum’s dying.’ His eyes widen and I break properly. It all pours out in a gross gush. I hide my face with my hands, trying to make the sobbing as silent as possible.
‘Oh my God, Fliss. How long has this been going on?’
‘Five years.’
He wraps a strong arm around my shoulder and pulls me in. I wish I could be absorbed into him. ‘Jesus, why didn’t you say something?’
I wipe my eyes on a sleeve. ‘Because I didn’t want anyone to see me like this, that’s why.’
He reaches into his pocket and produces a tissue. ‘It’s clean.’ As daintily as I can I wipe my nose. ‘Fliss, this is a huge thing. Is it cancer?’ I nod. ‘And it’s terminal?’ I nod again. ‘Man, I’m so sorry. You’re insane if you think you can go through this by yourself. Do Danny and Bronwyn know?’
‘No. No one does. It turns out that’s why we came here. So I can get to know my grandma before my mum dies.’
‘Oh, Fliss. Awful question, I know, but how long does she have?’
I shrug and swallow back more tears. ‘I don’t know. Six months. Maybe less.’
‘Fliss, you need help. No one, none of us, could cope with this alone.’ I nod again. ‘All this time and you never said.’
It doesn’t matter that I’ve only just been told. I should have known. She’s my mum. These thoughts are skittering madly round my head. ‘If you say something out loud it makes it real,’ I say, but it sounds so airheaded.
‘Hoping something will go away if you ignore it for long enough never works …’ He reaches over and wipes a tear from my cheekbone.
Is he talking about us? Does he mean his feelings for me? He’s touching my face for God’s sake. I knew it. He’s in love with me too.
I know what will make everything better. I lean in and kiss him on the lips. His jaw is rough like sandpaper, but his mouth is warm and soft. I cup his face with my hand and it feels like I’m floating.
I get all of that in the split second before he recoils in horror. ‘Fliss! What are you doing?’ He springs up off his beanbag.
My mouth opens but nothing comes out.
He pulls out a regular seat and sits on it, rubbing his face with his palms. ‘Fliss, I’m so sorry, but you’ve got the wrong end of the stick … I’m engaged to Miss Crabtree … and you’re … you’re a pupil.’
The word ‘pupil’ makes me feel about ten. Also Miss Crabtree? Really? She’s so plain.
‘I was just … trying to be nice, Fliss. I want to help, I really do, but I can’t do … that. It’s … well, illegal.’
Oh God, no. What have I done? New tears burn my eyeballs. My mouth is dry. ‘I … I …’ Everything I touch turns to crap.
‘I’m sorry, Fliss. I’m sorry if I’ve in any way made you think—’
‘No,’ I say finally. ‘It’s my fault.’
I get to my feet and grab my bag.
‘Fliss, wait. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’
‘I have to go,’ I say, and walk away, eyes fixed on the floor. I don’t look back. I can never look back. I can’t be here any more. I have to be far, far away. Out of this fucking town – and I never say that word because it’s common. I’m leaving. I’m leaving right now.