Читать книгу The Lost Sister - Tracy Buchanan - Страница 11

Becky

Sussex, UK

1 June 2018

Becky has to sit down when she hears her mum’s voice at the end of the phone, grasping at the arm of the chair she’s in, trying to control her breathing.

Ten years.

It has been ten years since they last spoke. They’d had an argument over her mum’s reluctance to send money to help Mike after a walking accident in France. Not that they’d talked much before then anyway, just the occasional awkward dinner for some birthdays, the odd letter. Of course, the cheque had arrived the next day for her dad. But the words her mum had spoken as she’d tried to defend herself, the bitterness and hatred she’d directed at Mike, the lies, had been the final straw.

Until now.

Her mum clears her throat. ‘He said I ought to call.’

‘Who said?’

‘The annoying nurse standing over me right now. Honestly, you should see the look he’s giving me.’ There’s a voice in the background, some laughter.

‘You’re in hospital?’ Becky asks.

A sigh. ‘It seems so.’

Fear bubbles at Becky’s core but she swipes it away. She can never be sure with her mum. She must wait, see what she says, before she allows herself to react.

Summer pads over, nudging her nose into Becky’s lap as though sensing her discomfort. She pats her dog’s head, drawing strength from her.

‘Are you okay?’ Becky asks politely, like she’s asking an acquaintance.

‘I’m dying.’

Becky drops the phone. She scrambles to grab it before it hits the wooden floor. The other dogs bounce in, crowding the hallway. Becky stands, pressing the phone to her ear.

‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Just … wait. What’s wrong with you?’ she asks, voice trembling.

‘Cancer. Of course it’s cancer. When isn’t it cancer?’

‘Jesus.’ Becky paces up and down the hallway as the dogs trot after her. ‘Have they actually told you you’re dying? The doctors, I mean?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Becky’s medical training suddenly rushes to the fore. She grasps at it like it’s an anchor stopping her from drowning. ‘What type of cancer?’

‘Breast cancer.’

‘Have you had chemo? There are new advances, new treatments being developed. You have money, they can—’

‘Oh Becky, sweetheart, I’m a lost cause.’

Becky feels tears spring to her eyes. She looks up at the ceiling. It doesn’t matter what her mum has done really. She’s Becky’s flesh and blood. The person who gave birth to her, who had her curled up inside of her for nine months.

And now she’s dying. She will be gone, the person she wakes each morning thinking of despite all her attempts not to.

Becky takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. ‘How long?’

‘Days, they’re saying.’

Becky suddenly feels sick. How could it be days?

‘Are you still there, Becky?’ Her mum’s voice cracks then. The first hint of vulnerability. It strikes such sadness in Becky’s heart, she can hardly breathe.

‘Sorry, Mum, just trying to get a handle on things,’ Becky whispers.

They’re silent for a few moments. Just breathing together, mother and daughter.

‘Will you come?’ her mum eventually asks, her voice small like a child’s. ‘I don’t want to die alone.’

Becky puts her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. ‘Of course. Where are you? I’ll be right there.’

The ward Becky’s mum is staying in isn’t bleak like Becky expected. Instead, there are sunny scenes painted on the walls. Becky can even see her old hometown’s quaint shops from the vast windows that line the back, including the charming little bookshop she remembers her mum doing a signing at once. It was three years after her mum had left. Becky was living in Busby-in-Sea with her dad then, settled at school … just. It had taken time to adjust to a life without her mum’s presence in it, without any woman’s presence, especially at certain times, like when she needed to buy her first bra. A chat over the phone or a quick lunch snatched in between her mum’s writing deadlines weren’t quite enough for occasions like that. She’d hoped a weekend stay with her mum to attend the launch of her novel would change things, but her mum had been so busy and flustered sorting out her party, practising her speech. Did that sound right to you, Becky? The part about writing being like the float keeping me above water? Would boat be better? It meant they barely spent time together to say hello, let alone talk about shopping for bras. An eleven-year-old Becky had attended that book launch resentful and sulky, the photos after showing not one smile from her.

Now that same bookshop displays a poster of a moody-looking novel called The Cave, described as a ‘gripping novel from debut author Thomas Delaney’, a photo beneath it of a slightly overweight man in his thirties with a walking stick.

It was strange coming back to the town she’d left all those years ago, seeing the familiar chalk stacks in the distance, the sandy bay and the quaint shops. Maybe part of her had known she’d be here for this one day, her mum ill or dying.

But not so soon.

She pauses at the entrance to her mum’s ward. The last time she was here would have been when she was a newborn on the maternity ward a floor down. She thinks of the photos she once pored over after her mum left, especially the one of her holding Becky in her arms, looking down at her with a frown, as though the tiny being was so confusing to her, so alien.

Becky sighs and peers at the sign at the front of the ward.

Ward 3. Oncology.

The sight of that sign makes her stomach turn. She is used to seeing that word on notes and in books. That word was for her patients, which was bad enough anyway, but now it is for her mum.

She takes a deep breath and walks in, past the smiling suns and fluffy clouds. She knows her mum would hate all that. Her old office in their first house was dark and brooding: an autumnal forest scene across one wall, brown paint on the others, mahogany furniture, the only sparks of colour in the form of deep purple cushions and scarlet pens. No doubt she is feeling out of sorts here in this hospital.

Maybe that’s why she needs me, Becky reasons. A familiar face.

Is she really so familiar though? It’s been ten years, after all. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in a window she passes: blonde hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, her face makeup free. Old jeans peppered with muddy paw prints. At least her light blue T-shirt is fresh, pulled on from the top of the clean laundry pile in a rush. But it’s a contrast to her mum, who was always glamorous, always perfectly made-up. Would she be any different now? She was sixty-five, after all.

Becky searches the ward for her mum. There are ten beds squeezed in. People are dozing. Some have visitors. There are cards wishing them well, flowers bright and thriving as though to detract from the life seeping from their recipients’ bodies.

A male nurse passes. Becky wonders if it’s the nurse who was with her mum when she called.

‘Excuse me,’ she says, stopping him. ‘I’m looking for my mum, she’s—’

‘Oh yeah,’ he says, smiling. ‘You must be Miss Rhys’s daughter.’

Becky nods. It is strange that her mum has kept her married name all this time, but Becky is not surprised. It is the name her readers know her as.

‘Come through. She’s in the private room,’ the nurse says.

Private. Of course. She is an acclaimed author, after all.

‘Is it as bad as she says?’ Becky asks the nurse as they walk to her mum’s room.

‘I’m afraid so,’ he says with a sigh. ‘She does a good job of looking well, but it won’t be long.’ He pauses and puts a hand on Becky’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Becky takes a deep breath. ‘I just had no idea, that’s all. We haven’t talked in years.’

The nurse frowns. ‘She told me you were at her last book launch a few months ago.’

Becky tenses. No doubt one of her mum’s embellishments. ‘No, she must be getting confused.’

The nurse nods sympathetically. ‘It happens.’

He leads her down a small corridor lined with doors, knocking gently on one of them.

‘Oh, you don’t need to knock, Nigel,’ Becky hears her mum call out. ‘God knows you’ve seen it all already the past few days.’

It feels strange to hear her mum’s voice again, just a metre or so away instead of over the phone. Deep and gravelly like it’s scratched with sand.

The nurse laughs. ‘Your daughter’s here, Miss Rhys.’

Becky smooths her hair down, feeling nervous.

‘Come in then,’ her mum calls out. The nurse opens the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he whispers with a raised eyebrow. Then he walks away.

Becky stands at the threshold. She can’t see her mum properly, just the end of her bed and a large window that looks out to sea. Suddenly, she feels the urge to run away. Hadn’t her mum once, when Becky needed her the most? She was just eight, for God’s sake. And yet her mum had still turned on her heel and left, hadn’t she?

But she wasn’t like her mum.

She walks in, her mum gradually revealed with each step she takes. She’s lying in bed, head turned towards the window, her once lush dark hair now brittle and greying in parts. Her arms that were once plump and tanned are now thin, papery and white, and her apple cheeks are sunken.

She turns towards Becky. Even her blue eyes have changed. Once vivid but now pale and watery. The only sign of her old self is a kind of fierceness in those eyes. And, of course, the vividly coloured nightdress, bright green nightingales against navy skies.

Her mum smiles slightly and, for a moment, time stops. Becky’s that eight-year-old girl again, standing on a windswept beach, reaching her hand out to her mum as she smiles down at her.

‘You came,’ her mum says.

‘Of course.’ Becky walks over as her mum struggles to pull herself up, adjusting the top of her nightdress. Becky examines her mum’s face. There are folds and creases there she’s unused to. Her mum was never smooth-faced – a few pockmarks from childhood acne on her cheeks, crinkles around her eyes even when she was young – but they made her even more beautiful. But her age is really showing now. The torment of illness.

‘Not quite how you remember me, I imagine,’ her mum says as though reading Becky’s thoughts.

‘It has been ten years,’ Becky replies. She moves a book from the chair by her mum’s bed so she can sit down. Love by Angela Carter. She remembers her mum reading a lot of Angela Carter’s books.

‘Has it really been ten years?’ her mum asks.

‘Yes, that long.’ Becky leans forward. She feels like she ought to take her mum’s hand, kiss her cheek. But things feel so brittle between them, like one touch might break everything. ‘How long have you known?’

‘I’ve known about the cancer for years.’

Becky frowns. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I seem to recall you saying you never wanted to speak to me again the last time we talked.’

Becky’s cheeks flush.

‘Anyway, I’ve been managing fine until now.’ Her mum straightens her crisp white bedsheets with her fingers and shrugs. ‘Had to catch up with me sooner or later, I suppose.’

‘I presume it’s spread?’ Becky asks.

Her mum nods. ‘Brain. Bones. Liver. Cuticles and hair strands too, probably. The lot.’

Becky turns away, a tear trailing down her cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices her mum reaching her hand out for her.

Then there’s a knock on the door.

Her mum lowers her hand. ‘Come in!’ she calls out in a faux bright voice.

A doctor walks in; an Indian woman, tall and serious looking.

‘Ah, you have a visitor,’ the doctor says, smiling.

‘Yes, this is my daughter,’ Becky’s mum replies.

Becky stands, putting her hand out to the doctor. ‘I’m Becky.’

The doctor shakes it. ‘Doctor Panchal.’ She turns to her patient. ‘How are you today?’

‘Not dead yet,’ Becky’s mum replies.

Doctor Panchal gives her a stern look. She turns to Becky. ‘I’m pleased you’re here. Your mum may have explained that we’re making preparations to move her to a hospice, a very good one. They have an excellent reputation in palliative care.’

Becky blinks. Palliative care. End of life. End of her mum’s life.

‘My daughter’s one of you lot, you know,’ her mum says to the doctor.

‘You’re a doctor too?’ the doctor asks Becky.

‘No, a vet,’ Becky explains.

The doctor smiles. ‘Wonderful. I have two cats.’

‘What sort?’ Becky asks, clutching onto the familiar conversation to stop her whirling down a rabbit’s hole of grief.

‘Siamese.’

‘I had a Siamese cat in one of my novels,’ her mum says.

‘Oh yes,’ the doctor replied. ‘The Circle, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’ Becky’s mum sighs. ‘It’s actually my least favourite novel.’

‘Oh really?’ the doctor says. ‘I loved it!’

It still feels alien to Becky, hearing people fuss over her mum’s novels. She was used to those early years, when her mum was struggling to make a success of things. But now, her mum has several million book sales and awards under her belt. Of course, she’d watched it all happen from afar, reading articles in newspapers describing her mum as the ‘Sunday Times bestselling author’ and ‘book club favourite’, the publicity photo of her staring out to sea, trademark sunglasses on, all Greta Garbo-esque. Then she’d won a major book award a few months later, and foreign deals meant she made it big in the States too.

At first, she gave interviews that Becky would read and throw away in frustration when she saw the little white lies littered throughout them: ‘My divorce was amicable; I still see my husband.’ Or: ‘I see my daughter as much as I can.’

But the articles petered out after her mum started withdrawing from the public eye – no more inviting journalists into her home to chat. Becky had been surprised at how much she’d resented that. She was hungry for more details of her mum’s life outside the brief visits they had before they became estranged, so her mum’s new solitude made her angry.

And then her mum had moved to the vast house above the cave. Becky had found out about it a few years ago after reading a feature in one of the glossy Sunday magazines, a photo of the ‘reclusive author’ outside her new home, the cave sprawled out below it. Becky wanted to call the journalist who’d written the piece and scream: ‘That cave was where she ran away to! That was what she abandoned me for.’

But she hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. Instead, she tried to ignore any mention of her mum, of her growing book sales and accolades, glamour and enigma.

‘I think Becky could have been a good writer actually,’ her mum says now.

Becky laughs. ‘Seriously?’

‘You won that short story competition once, remember?’

Becky knows what she’s referring to. And she hadn’t won it, she’d got third place. She was still proud though, and had even brought it to one of the monthly meet-ups she’d had with her mum in those initial years after she’d left. Her mum had read the story, then peered up at her. ‘You’ll improve, with time.’ And that was it, nothing else.

‘I came third, Mum,’ Becky says now.

‘Oh, first or third, it doesn’t matter. It was a wonderful story.’

Becky frowned. ‘You didn’t give that impression when you read it!’

‘Probably because I was trying to hide the fact I was about to start crying.’ She looks at the doctor. ‘I get teary when I’m proud. What about art?’ she continues. ‘You were always so good at drawing, Becky. Remember that painting you did of the horse for my fortieth birthday?’

‘Dog.’

‘Ah yes, dog. Such a fabulous painting. If you’d just put your mind to—’

‘I did put my mind to something!’ Becky exclaims, her patience running out. ‘I’m a vet!’

The doctor raises an eyebrow. ‘Okay, I’ll leave you both to catch up.’ She backs out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

‘You’re a bit tetchy this evening,’ her mum says when the doctor leaves.

‘Discovering your mother’s dying kind of does that to a girl.’

Her mum smiles and Becky can’t help but smile back. She knows how spiky her mum can be. Why get upset about it now, when they have so little time left?

‘So the hospice your doctor mentioned sounds nice,’ she says, sitting down again.

Her mum makes a face. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘It’ll be the best place for you, really.’

She crosses her thin arms. ‘Nope. Not happening.’

‘But you can’t stay here,’ Becky counters as gently as she can. ‘Hospices like the one your doctor mentioned are there for a very specific reason. And many of them have lovely, beautiful grounds. They’re peaceful places, and more spacious.’

Her mum pulls at her sheets, biting her lip. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’d still feel trapped.’

Trapped.

Becky has a memory then, of her mum standing in front of the mirror at home. ‘Trapped, I feel trapped,’ she remembers her saying.

She pushes the memory away. ‘Look Mum,’ Becky says gently. ‘I think it’s important you—’

‘I said no!’ her mum shouts. Her voice bounces off the walls. She leans forward, grasping Becky’s hands. ‘I know where I want to die and I need your help to do it.’

‘Where?’

‘The cave. I want to die in the cave.’

Becky moves back. ‘It’s out of the question.’

‘Why?’

‘You don’t understand the care involved. Your priority soon will be comfort. Rest and comfort. And being in a cave will not provide that.’

‘It did once,’ her mum counters.

Becky feels anger bubble up. It’s so tempting to ask her mum where her eight-year-old daughter’s comfort was when she was lying in bed alone at night, wondering when her mum would return. But instead, Becky forces a soft smile, squeezing her mum’s hand.

‘I promise you won’t regret going to the hospice. Let me get more information about it, and some others too so you have options. I think you’ll come to realise it’s the right thing to do.’

Her mum shakes her head in frustration. ‘Please, you’re the only hope I have, Becky! These people here won’t chance it, all obsessed with health and bloody safety. What does it matter when I’m dying anyway?’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I couldn’t do that to you. Let me go and ask about those brochures. Is there anything you need me to get for you while I’m out there? Shall I go to the shop, get some chocolates, a magazine?’

Her mum’s face turns glacial and she looks away. ‘No. I’d like to be alone actually. Probably best if you go home. It’s late.’

Becky watches her mum for a few moments. ‘Are you sure? I can stay, really.’

Her mum folds the top of the bedsheet down, smoothing it. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Right.’ Becky stands up. ‘You know my number, just call if you need anything. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.’

Still no response.

Becky leans over, squeezing her mum’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be okay,’ she says softly. ‘Sleep on it. Things always seem clearer in the morning.’

Her mum’s forehead crinkles slightly. ‘Someone else said the opposite to me once. That clarity comes with darkness.’ Then she sighs and closes her eyes.