CHAPTER 47
This location has been lodged in my brain for more than half a decade, like a childhood phone number you never forget. The backing squeaks as I lever it out.
Dad, Maxy and Jessie are watching me with a mixture of confusion and mild alarm.
The page is thin, light as air, but to me, it’s Gollum’s ring. Heavier than anything I can handle. More powerful than life itself.
‘This,’ I say numbly, unfolding the page and handing it to Dad. My voice is so low it’s barely audible. ‘I’m sorry.’
Dad takes the page carefully and reads it. After a moment, he looks up. ‘I’m confused,’ he says slowly.
I shake my head again. ‘I didn’t mean to.
’ The reel is playing on a loop in my mind: my beautiful mother in the passenger seat of my rubbish-strewn car; the manila folder falling from her grasp as I took the corner too quickly driving away from the hospital; those hands that never dropped anything, that were always alert, always reflexively poised for the next move; how they dropped the folder and the white pages went flying through the air, landing among chip packets and uni textbooks, dirty sneakers and sweaty sports bras, coat hangers and half-empty water bottles; how she quickly gathered up those A4 sheets of paper and jumped out of my filthy car as I dropped her at the station.
‘Don’t worry about me, strong girl,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’
‘It’s my fault,’ I whisper, in a ghost voice that’s barely my own. ‘She could have got a different treatment.’
I point to the text under the faded grey letterhead.
Even in the dimly lit room, the words are clear as day.
I recommend Mrs Hatton visits Dr Winkleposs to discuss potential immunotherapy options relating to the results of the ultrasound (enclosed).
But she didn’t see Dr Winkleposs and she never started immunotherapy, because I had the referral letter.
It was scrunched up in my car, which was so messy I didn’t find the letter for six months.
And by then, she’d decided to do chemo, which hadn’t helped one bit.
If only she’d started the immunotherapy earlier …
Dad’s hand is shaking slightly, the paper fluttering as if there’s a draught even though this room has been sealed tight for six years. We’re breathing air from a time capsule.
Maxy cranes his head to read the letter over Dad’s shoulder.
‘What does it say?’ Jessie asks.
‘It’s a referral to see another doctor about immunotherapy, which she could have done instead of chemo.
’ I sigh. I’m not even sad anymore, I’m just exhausted.
I want to delete myself from the world. Just not exist for a moment.
I don’t have the energy to pretend anymore; I don’t have the energy to hide.
‘Mum got the referral from the hospital but she dropped it in my car and I never realised it was in there. My car was …’
‘A shitshow,’ supplies Maxy. His voice is weighted with understanding. He’s already connected the dots: he knows it’s my fault. I was too messy, too disorganised, too careless to protect my own mother.
‘Ahhh,’ says Jessie, her eyes filling with tears as her mind cycles through the what-ifs that have plagued me for the last six years.
‘No,’ says Dad suddenly. ‘Kids, don’t do this to yourselves.
Mill, it’s not your fault. Maxy, Jessie, it’s not worth thinking we could have changed this.
No one could have changed this.’ He grabs us desperately and pulls us to his chest, as though he needs to catch us before we float away like astronauts in space, untethered from our rocket.
Maxy stifles a sad laugh as our heads knock together, and Jessie’s arm loops around my waist. We’re holding each other at weird angles.
My face is pressed against the crusty wool of Dad’s jumper.
One of my hands is on Maxy’s back, grabbing the fabric of his flannelette shirt.
Jessie’s hair dangles in my face, catching on my eyelashes.
‘It was crap luck,’ Dad says heavily. ‘And you had nothing to do with it, Mill.’ He pulls away slightly so he can look me in the eye. ‘There’s no way on earth she forgot about that referral.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He smiles sadly and smooths my hair, and then starts to do the one thing I never thought he would do in this situation.
He laughs. It starts small and throaty, deepening the dimples in his cheeks, and then his mouth opens and a hearty chortling sound rings out.
His whole chest is shaking and his eyes are bright and glimmering.
‘Dad!’ Jessie cries. ‘Are you insane?!’
‘Stubborn, stubborn idiot,’ Dad gasps.
‘Dad!’ I almost-yell, looking to Maxy and Jessie for back-up. ‘What the hell?’
‘The name,’ says Dad, thrusting the page towards us. His breaths are shallow from his laughter. ‘Look at the name.’
Maxy snatches the page and reads. ‘Mrs Hatton. What’s so interesting about that?’
‘The doctor’s name,’ laughs Dad. ‘I can guarantee you she didn’t forget about this referral, Mill.’ He rests his hand on the wingback chair to steady himself. ‘She definitely knew about it, but your mother was as stubborn as a donkey’s arse.’
I peer over Maxy’s shoulder. ‘Dr Winkleposs.’
‘Ohhhh,’ gasps Jessie slowly.
‘Yes,’ nods Dad.
‘What?’ cries Maxy, as my mouth releases a sudden screech of understanding.
‘Winkipop?!’
‘The one and only!’ laughs Dad.
‘Mum’s nemesis? The hotshot doctor with the killer serve?’
‘One and the same,’ nods Dad.
‘What are the chances!’ cries Maxy.
‘But …’ Jessie’s gaze cuts between us all. ‘Why would she let a grudge like that get in the way of her whole life? Her whole future?’
Dad puts his arm around my sister. ‘She didn’t,’ he says.
‘She got a second opinion from a lovely immunologist at the Nepean Hospital who’d never played tennis in her life, and then she got a third and fourth opinion from two doctors in the city.
Mum wasn’t sitting around waiting to die because of old Winkipop. ’
‘When did she go to all these appointments?’ I cry. ‘Why didn’t she tell us?’
‘Because she hated to talk about it. She hated to think about it, Mill. She tried to pretend it wasn’t happening.’
‘But what if Winkipop could have helped her?’ Maxy asks, his voice quiet.
‘Maybe he could have, maybe he couldn’t have. There are so many doctors in this world. She couldn’t go to all of them. At some point, you have to surrender. We can’t control everything.’
My whole face is hot. I’m not sure if I’m one single teardrop or if I’m covered in torrents of them.
I’ve never cried for Mum before, but now I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop.
It feels like a release, but it also feels like white-hot pain scorching every atom of my body.
The faces of my siblings mirror mine. There’s disbelief and total understanding.
Our stubborn, brilliant, kind, clever, ridiculous, grudge-holding mum is gone.
Dad draws us in again and this time we slide together like Tetris blocks.
I rest my head on Dad’s shoulder. Jessie does the same.
We stand like this for a long moment, each of us lost in thought, each of us unwilling to let go.
When Dad eventually pulls away with a bittersweet smile in his eyes, the energy in the room feels both less and more melancholic.
It’s as though we’ve somehow peaked properly.
We reached Everest six years ago but we clambered down again as fast as we could, desperate for the normality of base camp.
Now, we’re back on the summit, but this time we’re assessing the view, posting a flag, feeling the wind on our cheeks.
‘I love you guys,’ I say, my throat like lead. ‘And I love you, Mum.’ I tilt my head up to the sky, hoping she can hear me.
‘Same,’ says Jessie thickly.
‘Copycat,’ says Maxy, bumping Jessie’s shoulder. ‘But yeah, same.’
We all start laughing quietly, unsure whether it’s disrespectful to the moment or the best idea ever.
‘Poor Alex,’ I mutter, glancing towards the kitchen. ‘Do you think she’s still here? Or has she realised we’re a family of psychos and decided to bail while she still can?’ I catch Dad’s eye. ‘Sorry for ruining today.’
‘I’m sure she’ll understand,’ smiles Dad.
‘Not if she has frostbite,’ points out Maxy. ‘Do you think she managed to work out the gas heater on the deck? It’s freezing out there. I’ll go help her now.’
‘No need,’ says Dad, striding over to the window. He opens the curtains and the western sun streams into the room. ‘We can eat in here.’