anything.
She leads me into the lounge and helps me to a seat, lowers herself squarely down opposite
me.
‘So,’ she says, ‘not feeling too good today?’
‘Would you be?’
Dad shoots me a warning glance. I don’t care.
‘Any shortness of breath or nausea?’
‘I’m on anti-emetics. Have you actually read my case file?’
‘Excuse her,’ Dad says. ‘She’s had
a bit of leg pain recently, nothing else. The nurse who saw
her last week said she was doing well. Sian, I think her name was – she’s aware of the medication
regime.’
I snort through my nose. He tries to make it sound casual, but it doesn’t wash with me. Last
time Sian was here he offered her supper and made a right idiot of himself.
‘The team tries to provide continuity,’ Philippa says, ‘but it’s not always possible.’ She turns
back to me, dismissing Dad and his sorry love life.
‘Tessa, you’ve got quite a bit of bruising on your arms.’
‘I climbed a tree.’
‘It suggests your platelets are low. Have you got any major activities planned for this week?’
‘I don’t need a transfusion!’
‘We’ll do
a blood test anyway, to be on the safe side.’
Dad offers her coffee, but she declines. Sian would’ve said yes.
‘My dad can’t cope,’ I tell Philippa as he goes out to the kitchen in a sulk. ‘He does
everything wrong.’
She helps me off with my shirt. ‘And how does that make you feel?’
‘It makes me laugh.’
She gets gauze and antiseptic spray from her medical case, puts on sterile gloves and holds
my arm up so she can clean around the portacath. We both wait for it to dry.
‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ I ask her.
‘I’ve got a husband.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Andy.’
She looks uncomfortable saying his name out loud. I see different people all the time and they
never introduce themselves properly. They like knowing all about me though.
‘Do you believe in God?’ I ask her.
She sits back in her chair and frowns. ‘What a question!’
‘Do you?’
‘Well, I suppose I’d like to.’
‘What about heaven? Do you believe in that?’
She rips a sterile needle from its package. ‘I think heaven sounds nice.’
‘That doesn’t mean it exists.’
She looks at me sternly. ‘Well, let’s hope it does.’
‘I think it’s a great big lie. When you’re dead, you’re dead.’
I’m beginning to get to her now: she’s looking flustered. ‘And what happens to all that spirit
and energy?’
‘It turns to nothing.’
‘You know,’ she says, ‘there are support groups, places you can meet other young people in
the same position as you.’
‘No one’s in the same position as me.’
‘Is that how it feels?’
‘That’s how it is.’
I lift my arm so she can draw b lood through the portacath. I’m half robot, with plastic and
metal embedded under my skin. She draws blood into a syringe and discards it. It’s such a waste,
that first syringe tainted with saline. Over the years, nurses must have thrown a body-full of my
blood away. She draws a second syringe, transfers it to a bottle and scribbles my name in blue ink
on the label.
‘That’s you done,’ she says. ‘I’ll ring in an hour or so and let you know the results. Anything
else before I go?’
‘No.’
‘Have you got enough meds? Do you want me to drop into the GP’s and pick up any repeat
prescriptions?’
‘I don’t need anything.’
She heaves herself out of the chair and looks down at me solemnly.
‘The community team offer a lot of support that you might not be aware of, Tessa. We can
help you get back to school, for instance, even if it’s only part-time, even if it’s only for a few
weeks. It might be worth thinking about trying to normalize your situation.’
I laugh right up at her. ‘Would you go to school if you were me?’
‘I might get lonely here by myself all day.’
‘I’m not by myself.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘But it’s tough on your dad.’
She’s a cow. You’re not supposed to say things like that. I stare at her. She gets the message
then.
‘Goodbye, Tessa. I’m going to pop into the kitchen and have a word, then I’ll be off.’
Despite the fact that she’s fat already, Dad offers her fruitcake and coffee, and she accepts!
The only thing we should be offering guests are plastic bags to wrap around their shoes. We should
have a giant X marked on the gate.
I steal a fag from Dad’s jacket and go upstairs and lean out of Cal’s window. I want to see the
street. There’s a view through the trees to the road. A car passes. Another car. A person.
I blow smoke out into the air. Every time I inhale I can hear my lungs crackle. Maybe I’ve got
TB. I hope so.
All the best poets had TB; it’s a mark of sensibility. Cancer’s just humiliating.
Philippa comes out of the front door and stands by the step. I flick ash on her hair, but she
doesn’t notice, just says goodbye in that booming voice of hers and waddles off up the path.
I sit on Cal’s bed. Dad’ll come up in a minute.
While I wait,
I get a pen and write,
Parachutes,
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