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This is where I work now
, she wrote.
m
learning how to be a pastry chef and I m getting very fat!
Good! Dad said. I hope she bloody bursts!
I put her postcards on my bedroom wall – Carlisle, Melrose, Dornoch.
We re living in a croft like shepherds
, she wrote.
Did you know that
they use the windpipe, lungs, heart and liver of a sheep to make haggis?
I didn t, and I didn t know who she meant by we , but I liked looking
at the picture of John o Groats with its vast sky stretching across the Firth.
Then winter came and I got my diagnosis. I m not sure she believed it
at first, because it took her a while to turn round and make her way back. I
was thirteen when she finally knocked on our door.
You look lovely! she told me when I answered it. Why does your
father always make everything sound so much worse than it is?
Are you coming back to live with us? I asked.
Not quite.
And that s when she moved into her flat.
It s always the same. Maybe it s lack of money, or perhaps she wants
to make sure I don t over-exert myself, but we always end up watching
videos or playing board games. Today, Cal chooses the Game of Life. It s
rubbish, and I m crap at it. I end up with a husband, two children and a job
in a travel agent s. I forget to buy house insurance, and when a storm
comes, I lose all my money. Cal, however, gets to be a pop star with a
cottage by the sea, and Mum s an artist with a huge income and a stately
home to live in. When I retire, which happens early because I keep spinning
tens, I don t even bother counting what s left of my cash.
32
Cal wants to show Mum his new magic trick next. He goes to get a
coin from her purse, and while we re waiting, I drag the blanket off the
back of the sofa and Mum helps me pull it over my knees.
ve got the hospital next week, I tell her. Will you come?
Isn t Dad going?
You could both come.
She looks awkward for a moment. What s it for?
ve been getting headaches again. They want to do a lumbar
puncture.
She leans over and kisses me, her breath warm on my face. You ll be
fine, don t worry. I know you ll be fine.
Cal comes back in with a pound coin. Watch very carefully, ladies, he
says.
But I don t want to. I m bored of watching things disappear.
In Mum s bedroom, I hitch my T-shirt up in front of the wardrobe
mirror. I used to look like an ugly dwarf. My skin was grey and if I poked
my tummy it felt like an over-risen lump of bread dough and my finger
disappeared into its softness. Steroids did that. High-dosage prednisolone
and dexamethasone. They re both poisons and they make you fat, ugly and
bad-tempered.
Since I stopped taking them I ve started to shrink. Today, my hips are
sharp and my ribs shine through my skin. I m retreating, ghost-like, away
from myself.
I sit on Mum s bed and phone Zoey.
Sex, I ask her. What does it mean?
33
Poor you, she says. You really did get a crap shag, didn t you?
I just don t understand why I feel so strange.
Strange how?
Lonely, and my stomach hurts.
Oh, yeah! she says. I remember that. Like you ve been opened up
inside?
A bit.
That ll go away.
Why do I feel as if I m about to cry all the time?
You re taking it too seriously, Tess. Sex is a way of being with
someone, that s all. It s just a way of keeping warm and feeling attractive.
She sounds odd, as if she s smiling.
Are you stoned again, Zoey?
No!
Where are you?
Listen, I have to go in a minute. Tell me what s next on your list and
we ll make a plan.
ve cancelled the list. It was stupid.
It was fun! Don t give up on it. You were doing something with your
life at last.
When I hang up, I count to fifty-seven inside my head. Then I dial
999.
A woman says, Emergency services. Which service do you require?
34
I don t say anything.
The woman says, Is there an emergency?
I say, No.
She says, Can you confirm that there is no emergency? Can you
confirm your address?
I tell her where Mum lives. I confirm there s no emergency. I wonder if
Mum ll get sent some kind of bill. I hope so.
I dial directory enquiries and get the number for the Samaritans. I dial
it very slowly.
A woman says, Hello. She has a soft voice, maybe Irish. Hello, she
says again.
Because I feel sorry for wasting her time, I say, Everything s a pile of
crap.
And she makes a little Uh-huh sound in the back of her throat, which
makes me think of Dad. He made exactly that sound six weeks ago, when
the consultant at the hospital asked if we understood the implications of
what he was telling us. I remember thinking how Dad couldn t possibly
have understood, because he was crying too much to listen.
m still here, the woman says.
I want to tell her. I press the receiver to my ear, because to talk about
something as important as this you have to be hunched up close.
But I can t find words that are good enough.
Are you still there? she says.
No, I say, and I put the phone down.
35
Six
Dad takes my hand. Give me the pain, he says.
m lying on the edge of a hospital bed, in a knee-chest position with
my head on a pillow. My spine is parallel to the side of the bed.
There are two doctors and a nurse in the room, although I can t see
them because they re behind me. One of the doctors is a student. She
doesn t say much, but I guess she s watching as the other one finds the
right place on my spine and marks the spot with a pen. He prepares my
skin with antiseptic solution. It s very cold. He starts at the place where he s
going to put the needle in and works outwards in concentric circles, then he
drapes towels across my back and puts sterile gloves on.
ll be using a twenty-five-gauge needle, he tells the student. And a
five-millilitre syringe.
On the wall behind Dad s shoulder is a painting. They change the
paintings in the hospital a lot, and I ve never seen this one before. I stare at
it very hard. I ve learned all sorts of distraction techniques in the last four
years.
In the painting, it s late afternoon in some English field and the sun is
low in the sky. A man struggles with the weight of a plough. Birds swoop
and dive.
Dad turns in his plastic chair to see what I m looking at, lets go of my
hand and gets up to inspect the picture.
Down at the bottom of the field, a woman runs. She holds her skirt
with one hand so that she can run faster.
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