Chapter 14
Fourteen
the happiest hangover there ever was
Max
I don’t remember much about dying. I almost wish I did. I have no anecdote about seeing my entire life play out before my
eyes, no bright light calling out to me, no pearly gates and heavenly choirs to guide me home. (Although let’s be honest,
I would’ve been sent downstairs, if anything.)
But I do remember the first time I woke up after the doctors restarted my heart. I still don’t know if it was hours or days
after the septic shock hit its peak, but the other details live in my memory in perfect clarity. The starchiness of my cross-stitch
blanket. The way my eyelids felt too heavy for my face. The smell of Mum’s perfume as she cupped my cheek.
I remember wanting to say something impressive. Something funny. But my throat was lined with a breathing tube and I couldn’t
speak, so instead, I squeezed my dad’s and Ava’s hands three times, hoping they’d get the message I was sending across.
As my eyelids fluttered closed again, Dad whispered, ‘We love you too.’
And at least I knew they understood, and that was good enough to send me back into another dreamless sleep.
Today, when I wake, it’s to the sound of my phone blasting an alarm, and I fumble around to turn the fucking thing off. Upon peeling open my dry eyes, I’m thrown for a moment. The angle of sunlight is different, the textures around me unexpected.
And my neck kills.
Slowly, groggily, the puzzle pieces itself together, led by a vague recollection of Dylan taking my phone and putting it on
charge, of her then standing with me by the kitchen sink and coaxing me to drink a glass of water, of me flopping on to the
sofa and passing out.
The bedroom’s empty, so she must’ve snuck out while I was uncomfortably folded atop the too-small sofa, but a note on the
side table in neat handwriting says Your water bottle’s in the fridge. And then beneath it, smaller, like it was an afterthought, The banana on the counter and coffee in the pot are yours too if you want them. I can’t decipher what emotion twists my gut, because it blends with the hangover.
I don’t know if it’s because it was made by a former barista, but that first sip of coffee is unparalleled. It almost heals
me. Almost.
Just as I’m gingerly eating the banana, it occurs to me that my late alarm was actually a five-minute reminder to get my laptop
set up for therapy, and I scramble to get set up in time.
‘You look wise as ever this morning, Marianne,’ I begin, only a minute late, and she raises an eyebrow in response. My incoming
scan results later this morning are, understandably, the topic of the session, and Marianne sets her shrewd eyes on me, not
once reacting to the jokes I send her way. ‘Marianne, even Satan didn’t want me. Should I be offended by that?’ ’Imagine being so bad at following instructions that you can’t even stay dead when you’re meant to.’
She’s definitely heard them before, probably when the cancer came back last year, but I think she’s taking pity on me because she knows I’m on a knife’s edge until I get these results.
We make a plan to stay focused on my routine as best I can while I’m here, and she urges me to talk to my family and friends, even just to let them know I’m feeling fragile.
I don’t tell her that some of my fragility stems from the alcohol I consumed last night, but considering my skin is faintly green and I’ve gone to the sink twice to refill my bottle, I have a hunch she’s figured it out.
She tells me that if I need an emergency session once I get my results, she’ll do her best to find time for me because I’m
her favourite and most handsome patient (she doesn’t say either of those things explicitly, but I read between the lines).
And then it’s over, and I slam my laptop shut.
Within minutes, I’m out in the open air, making my way down to the beach and then back up, unruly plants whipping my shins
when I get too close to the edge of the path. I’m pretty sure I can feel my skeleton rattling as my feet pound the ground,
but I push through it, breath burning my lungs. By the time I reach the top of the cliff, sweat drips down the back of my
neck, my T-shirt drenched, and I take tiny sips of water to ease my stomach. This run has not helped with the nausea, but I was going to crawl out of my own skin if I stayed cooped up for any longer.
Despite the fact I knew it was coming, when my phone buzzes and I catch sight of my hospital’s caller ID, I almost drop it
in my haste to answer.
‘Is this Max Monroe?’ a tinny voice asks. I weave through long grass towards a viewpoint that I know has better signal, straining to hear over the
roaring in my ears. By the time my oncologist says the words I’ve been hoping for, my breath comes out in a rush that loosens
my entire body.
No evidence of active disease.
The rest is perfectly, wonderfully mundane. No concerns, nothing that looks dodgy. Plans for the next check-up, usual reminders
to come in if anything seems out of the ordinary between now and my next scan. When I say goodbye, my voice trembles with
relief.
I fire off a message into the family group chat, which is met immediately with celebratory replies from Mum, Dad, Ava and Finn.
I imagine both couples happily receiving the news together, and I’m suddenly poked by the strangest scratch of sadness at the realisation that I don’t have anyone of my own to share this moment with.
Part of me wants to tell the whole world the news, but the sensible part knows I’d regret making it a big deal. Instead, all
I do is slide my phone into my pocket and let out a loud whoop, sending the sound careening over the cliff edge and imagining
it tumbling down, down, until it crashes into the water, swallowed up by the waves. A delirious laugh shakes my shoulders,
finally free of the tension that’s been tightening them for days. Shit, this never gets any easier, but this feeling never gets any less exhilarating.
‘How’s the hangover?’ an amused voice calls out. I whip around and there’s Dylan, putting her headphones back in their case
as she approaches the viewpoint from the opposite direction, following the worn path while I trudge through the grass towards
her.
‘Brutal, actually,’ I reply, but joy is seeping into my skin like sunlight, brightening me up, warming me all over, saturating
the day’s colours tenfold. We reach the sun-bleached wooden bench at the same time and drop on to opposite ends, both looking
out over the ocean and the curving bay below. ‘I honestly think I might throw up.’ We’re quiet for a bit as a seagull caws
above us, and then I keep going. ‘Thanks for putting my bottle in the fridge. And for the banana. I probably would’ve shrivelled
up and died if not for you, so I appreciate it.’
‘I’m wondering if I’m more invested in keeping you alive than you are.’
‘The bar is very low in that regard,’ I admit.
Her eyebrows draw together. ‘You seemed like you needed help.’
’It was, uh . . . not my finest hour.’
She nods slowly. ‘You know, whenever Tahlia–my little sister–was ill as a kid, I’d always make her tomato soup. I don’t even
know why. It just became a thing. Even now, we always have emergency tins just in case. If either of us has a cold coming
on, or we’re feeling run-down or burnt out, we eat tomato soup.’
‘Are you about to tell me it cures hangovers?’
‘Oh yeah, when Tahlia went through her whisky phase when she was seven, the soup fixed her right up.’
We look at each other at the same time, and there’s something cautious in her expression.
‘Did you just make a joke to me?’
She rolls her eyes, but a smile threatens her cheeks. ‘I have been known to do that, from time to time.’
‘Are you two close? You and Tahlia?’
‘Yeah. She’s seven years younger than me, and our mum’s always worked a lot to keep us afloat, so I spent a lot of time with
her growing up.’ She fiddles with the fraying ends of her friendship bracelet. It’s the one thing she wears that’s a little
scruffy. ‘Helping her with homework, going shopping for school uniform, taking her to her extracurriculars. And now she’s
heading off to uni in a few weeks.’
‘Sounds like you were like a second mum.’
Her tone is defensive. ‘No. Our mum’s great. I just try to be a good big sister.’
She’s frowning for some reason, so I go for a different angle. ‘You said you have soup when you’re burnt out. Is that something
you often feel? Burnt out?’
She tugs her jumper sleeves over her hands in her lap as she looks out at the water. ‘I’m just busy. But eventually things
will slow down. I just need to push through–start my new job, then I’ll get chartered, and in a few years I’ll have a bit
more freedom, and a lot more stability.’ Her shoulders lift in a shrug. ‘I’ll miss chatting with the regulars at the coffee
shop, though. I like hearing about their lives.’
‘You do not have that in common with my sister,’ I note.
She grins, and I mirror it instinctively. ‘Your sister wasn’t built for customer service.’
‘But you were? Because you like helping people?’ I guess.
‘I do. London’s hectic, and the coffee shop often is too, but it just feels like . . .’ she trails off. ‘It doesn’t pay well
and even if I became a manager, it still wouldn’t be enough to take care of my family.’
‘If it were enough, would that change your mind?’
‘I wouldn’t mind the idea of it being my long-term career.’ She sighs. ‘A lot of people see that kind of job as a means to an end, but I don’t know . . . I like the simplicity of it. It’s fulfilling in its own way.’
‘Do feel that way about being here, too?’
She brings her knees up and props her chin on them. ‘I guess. It’s going to be jarring to go back to the noise.’
‘Don’t go back, then.’
‘I have to,’ she says, and she pulls that same expression as when she was defending her mum.
I take it as my cue to change the subject. ‘Did I do anything untoward last night?’