‘You always kept your emotions wrapped up inside you. Even as a child.’ I lean into her touch. ‘I know it’s a defence mechanism, but it’s not always the best way to deal with things. People can’t help you if they don’t know what’s going on. You have to let the people you trust in. And you have to tell the people you trust the truth.’ How does she know me so well? Better than my own family does.
I know she’s right. But she makes it sound so much simpler than the reality is. Showing everyone how vulnerable I am has never been my way of dealing with things.
‘And on that note. I think I might need to go to the bathroom.’ She raises a perfectly painted eyebrow at me. ‘You might have to help me get there.’
We stand and she leans on my arm as we go out to the bathroom. Once she’s finished, I help her back to her chair.
‘Do you want something to eat?’ I ask, glad that I’ll have something practical to do.
She pulls a face. ‘Not really. But if I don’t eat something, Jackson’ll be upset. So yes. That’d be lovely.’
Tippi follows me out into the kitchen. She trots along happily on three legs and it’s a relief to see her unbothered by all she’srecently been through. I let her out of the back door and then plant my hands on the worktop and lean my full weight against them, my elbows locked. I stare straight ahead through the window, focussed on nothing. I feel like I’ve been wrung out. Twisted tight and then released. There’s an exhaustion and a fear of what is to come, but a lightness at having been able to cry and be held. And a vague feeling of not being alone.
Tippi scoots across the garden and refocuses me. I take the two plates covered in tinfoil out of the fridge. They’re piled high with chunky slices of chicken, barrels of carrots, a generous serving of creamy mashed potato and some bright green petit pois. There’s even a little pot of gravy to accompany it all. It’s more than I would make for a Sunday dinner. All that’s missing is a Yorkshire pudding. I’m overfed just looking at it.
I pop my head back into the front room. ‘There’s a chicken dinner or I could make you soup?’
‘Soup sounds lovely.’ Sophie sounds almost relieved.
I set to in the kitchen. There’s no blender to be found, so I shred the chicken and chop the veg as small as I can and throw them in a frying pan while the kettle is boiling. Hunting in the cupboards produces a shallot, a garlic clove, some dried herbs and a chicken stock cube. I add finely diced onion, garlic and herbs to the pan and once the kettle has clicked off, mix the hot water with a stock cube. Once this is added to the pan, I let it simmer. It still looks a little wishy washy. I stick my head back in the fridge. There has to be something else I can use. There’s no cream, but there is Greek yoghurt. That’ll have to do. Once it’s seasoned, I think it tastes quite nice. It could do with a bread bun to serve it with, but there’s nothing like that in the house.
I take a mug out of the cupboard and fill it three quarters full then take it through with a napkin and a spoon. Sophie can drink it or use the cutlery. Whichever is easier.
‘This smells wonderful,’ she says when I put the soup downon the beanbag tray she’s put on her lap. She wraps both hands around the mug and brings it to her face to sniff. The mug wavers a little, but not enough that I’m worried.
There’s nothing worse than someone watching you eat. I leave her to it and head back into the kitchen to tidy up. Tippi comes trotting back in from outside to meet me. I crouch down and feed her some of the leftover scraps of chicken. She takes them happily. She’s standing confidently on three legs, her tail upright, waving gently. It’s hard not to stare at the shaved patch of fur and line of healing stitch marks where her fourth leg should be.
‘I’m so glad you’re OK.’ I scratch her around the ears and she hops up, putting her front two paws on my knee. I thought she’d be wobbly balancing on one back leg, but just as Jackson said, it doesn’t seem to bother her one bit. She’s finished saying hello to me once she realises I don’t have any more food and hops down to trot back in to see her mum.
When I go back into the front room, Sophie moves to get out of her chair.
‘I might go for a nap.’
I offer her my arm and she holds it to help her stand and to stabilise her as she walks. We walk with small steps to the downstairs bedroom. Someone has made an effort to make it look cosy, but there’s no getting away from the fact it was once a dining room. The sideboard and dining table and chairs are all pushed to the far side of the room and the bed is as close to the front window as possible.
‘So I can see the sky,’ says Sophie, as she lowers herself onto the bed. ‘I don’t get under the covers during the day. Somehow that feels wrong.’ She shuffles backwards in preparation to move her legs up. Tippi hops up on to the bed remarkably easily for a dog with three legs, then lies down, her nose tucked away neatly under her tail.
‘You’ll be glad when you can get back upstairs to your own room,’ I say, and I reach for the velvety navy blanket folded at the foot of the bed.
It’s a passing comment, conversation for the sake of conversation. But the silence that follows it is eerie, and immediately I know I’ve said something wrong. Sophie has stilled as if she’s been frozen. I straighten up and pull the blanket to my chest, hugging it tight. She pats the bed next to her to encourage me to sit. I lower myself, almost in a trance. There’s no trace of anguish in her face and her gaze is calm and untroubled. But it’s the opposite of comforting.
‘Has he not told you?’
‘Not told me what?’ My gut tells me what is coming next, but I’d do almost anything to not hear it.
‘I’ll never get to go back upstairs. I’m not going to get better.’ Her words are so even. Not a hint of a tremor or distress. In contrast, I feel as though I’ve been physically punched in the stomach and every one of my organs has been pushed up into the back of my throat, suffocating me. ‘My cancer’s spread too far.’
‘But Jackson said you’ve had appointments. Treatment. You’ve been feeling better.’ My voice croaks over the words.
‘My appointments haven’t been about treatment. More about keeping me comfortable and having quality of life with the time I have left.’ She takes my hand for the second time today. Cradling it in her own. ‘My darling girl. I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.’
This whole situation is wrong. Why is Sophie comforting me? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I’m floored, floundering around trying to find the right things to say.
‘Jackson …’ My voice peters away.
‘Jackson.’ She repeats my word with a sad, slow shake of her head. She is demonstrably more upset at this line of thought than when she was talking about herself. ‘Milo and most of my friends have accepted it for what it is. Some have disappeared. Iguess coping with a dying friend isn’t for everyone.’ Her words are candid, as if she’s discussing someone else. ‘Sally and Roz have been there for everything. Taking me out for fresh air, picking up my medication, giving the boys a break. We could get help in, but Jackson wants to do it all himself. He won’t be able to forever, though. I’m starting to feel like a burden as it is.’
‘You’ll never be that to them. They think the world of you.’ My fingers tighten around hers.
