I feel sick, too. It wells up suddenly, like a vat of acid, red and bubbling.
‘You’ve got cancer.’ I stare at Dad, only half-believing. This could be a trick. I wouldn’t put it past him.
His voice goes quiet. ‘It’s for real, Harris. I’ve gotta come in for treatment.’
‘Bullshit.’ The word explodes out of me before I can stop it.
‘I said it’s for real. I’m not lying.’ Dad sighs. ‘I’m seeing Doc Clifford. She wants me to start a course of chemo after Christmas. Until then I’m on some kinda medicine to get the ball rolling. I mean, look at me, yeah? I’m dropping weight, I’ve cut back on the cigs… I dunno what else I can say to convince you, Harris, but it’s true.’
My head is sloshing around with the combination of this morning’s drugs and now this news. I can’t seem to process. My dad has cancer. He might be dying. I don’t know what to feel.
‘And that’s what I wanna ask you,’ Dad goes on. ‘That’s all I need. It’s what kids do for their old folks – stick around when the going’s tough.’
That’s when it all comes clear. When I finally understand what Dad wants, and what it’ll mean.
‘You want me to come home.’ My voice is flat. ‘To stay with you.’
‘While I go through treatment, yeah. If you do that, things’ll be different. I’ll mend me ways. Stop ragging you. But I need you home now, son. You’ll have to get back on your feet, and I’ll be on my medicine. We can look after each other.’
Look after each other. Those words have a whole different meaning under Dad’s roof. I remember plenty of times he’s ‘looked after’ me – usually it happened when I wasn’t doing as I was told, or doing it fast enough, or sometimes when I was getting up to strife, or resisting him. I’ve got enough memories of those times that only the really painful ones stick out now.
It’s not like it’s been all one way, either. I always thought it was impossible to stand up for myself, then when I got tall, I found my fight. I did it out of anger, or out of desperation, or just to save my sanity. Does that make me a bad person? I dunno.
What I do know is that since I hit puberty, me and Dad in combination can’t be anything but wrong. Oil and water, chalk and cheese, fuel and flame; some things just shouldn’t be mixed.
‘I think you’re fucking crazy.’ I stare at him. ‘I’m crook, you’re crook. How’re we s’posed to help each other? What, you want me to –’
‘I want you to do something good for me!’ Dad’s face is livid. He realises he’s bellowed, lowers his voice, which I can see takes some effort. ‘I want you to do what a son should. Take care of me before I go into the ground. I’m tryin’ to talk reasonable with you, but you can’t even do that!’
The bed I’m in seems to have turned into malleable plastic. I can feel the pillows under me, the padding I’ve shrunk into. My whole body is tense – I try to relax my thigh, which is throbbing again. Dad’s flare-ups do this to me, every time.
But I’m stuck here on this bed. I can’t get up and walk away. I’ve just gotta take the hit, and hope there’s still enough spring left in me to bounce back.
I start slow. ‘If you’re seeing a doc about it –’
‘It eats you up from the inside.’ Dad glowers at the floor. ‘Nothing smells good, nothing tastes good… And it hurts. It’s hard to get up in the morning sometimes.’
I close my eyes. ‘Dad, I dunno. This is…’
This is what? Insane? Stupid? All of the above? I got away from Dad once. Going back would end me. It’s not gonna happen. No fucking way.
‘Look, I’ll sweeten the pot,’ Dad says suddenly. ‘I’ll come clean with you.’
My eyes open. ‘What?’
‘Come back home. That’s all I’m asking. If you do that…I’ll tell you where to find your mother.’
The silence in the room now is a glaring contrast to Dad’s bellow of a moment ago. I truly feel as if my lungs have stopped working.
It takes me a whole minute to push words out my throat. ‘You know where she is?’
‘Yes.’
I absorb this for a second. Make my throat work again. ‘And Kelly?’
‘They’re together.’
Together– my mum and my sister are together.
