In My Sister's Shoes (11 page)

After an hour with the twins, she looked exhausted and I made her go up to bed for a nap. It was only when she didn’t protest and didn’t quiz me on what I was cooking for dinner that I realized how much pain she was in. The boys helped me tuck her in and then we left her to rest – I was tempted to lie down beside her, but I took the boys out to the park instead and played I Spy… I snapped after the forty-seventh word. I could take it no more. They should use it as a form of torture in wars: it works.

14

The next couple of weeks passed in a blur of driving the boys to school, picking them up, cleaning the house, making them lunch and dinner and pinning Fiona to the bed to rest. As each day passed she grew stronger, and by the time she was due to start her chemotherapy she was feeling much better, which was a pity in a way: just when she felt herself again she had to face intense treatment. Although she was trying to be positive, I could see she was dreading it. Every time I thought about it I felt sick for her.

Fiona had decided not to postpone the treatment and was just hoping it wouldn’t cause permanent infertility. When Dad had found out she was thinking about delaying it he had gone mental. I don’t ever remember seeing him so angry. He ranted and raged at her, telling her she was selfish for even thinking about it.

‘You’ve two fine boys here who need their mother. Get some sense, girl. You can’t put off getting better for some ridiculous egg collection – you’re not a bloody hen. Be grateful for the two children you have and start that chemotherapy as soon as possible. You’re to focus on one thing only, getting better, and if I have to drag you there by the scruff of your neck, you’ll be starting that treatment next week, and I don’t want to hear another bloody word about it.
Do you understand
?’

Fiona was shocked. Dad never shouted at her. He’d never had reason to. He’d roared at me and Derek on a regular basis, but Fiona was always so good and kind and responsible that he’d never had to raise his voice to her. When he had stormed out of the house to go for a walk and calm down, Fiona had looked at me wide-eyed.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘He seems to think he’s Marlon Brando in
The Godfather
.’ I wanted to make light of it because it was obvious that Dad was terrified Fiona was going to die, and his outburst had made me nervous. He had first-hand experience of losing someone from this disease: did he think Fiona was going to end up like Mum?

‘What have you done to the old man?’ asked Derek, arriving in. ‘I asked him to lend me a few quid and he pinned me up against the wall and told me I was a waste of space and it was time I grew up. It’s practically child abuse.’

‘Derek, you’re twenty-six,’ I reminded him. ‘It’d be adult abuse.’

‘I might have to write a song about it – “My fatha shouted me out, and called me a useless lout, I’m damaged from the shout…”’

‘You’ve used “shout” twice in three lines,’ said Fiona, and we dissolved with laughter.

‘It’s all just a joke to you. Well, when I’m living in a far-out crib, we’ll see who’s laughing then,’ said the sensitive artist with high expectations.

‘Come on, Derek, we’re only joking,’ said Fiona the peacemaker, as he flounced out of the room to finish his bestselling rap-song about how his father had abused him by supporting him financially for twenty-six years.

At last the day of Fiona’s first chemotherapy session came round. She had organized it to take place when the boys were at school. As usual, Mark couldn’t be there because of work. This time I didn’t bite my tongue. Two days before we had had a huge argument when he told me he wouldn’t be going with Fiona.

‘What do you mean you can’t go? Do you not understand what’s going on here? Your wife is about to undergo a horrific bout of treatment. What the hell could be more important than being at her side?’

‘Of course I’d like to be there, but I only have a few weeks left to produce this paper and Fiona is one hundred per cent behind me. I will be here to look after her every evening, as I always am. I should be able to take her to the next session. I just can’t be with her at this one. You came home to help, so can you please just help and stop nagging me?’

‘Nagging you? Oh, Mark, I haven’t even got warmed up.’

‘Fiona is the one whose opinion matters and she’s fully supportive. I’ll have more time to be with her after this competition, when she really needs me.’

‘In the mean time, good old Kate will pick up the pieces. Don’t worry, I’ll hold your wife’s hand. You go off and do your sums.’

Fiona and I drove to the hospital in silence. She was too terrified to speak and I couldn’t think of anything comforting to say. She was now facing six months of chemotherapy – eight sessions, one every three to four weeks, followed by radiotherapy five days a week for five weeks. The oncologist had said her chances of full recovery were very good and it would all be over in seven and a half months’ time. Fiona was a fighter, I reminded myself. She’d survive this. It was February so, all going well, she’d be completely finished her treatment by September or October and then she could put it behind her. We all could.

When we arrived at the treatment centre, a friendly nurse called June showed us into a large, sunny room with six big comfortable chairs and several smaller ones for visitors. This was where the chemotherapy would be administered. But, first of all, Fiona had to go for a series of blood tests.

A couple of hours later she was given the go-ahead to start the chemotherapy. She lay back in one of the chairs in the treatment room and waited for her drugs to be made up. I had bought stacks of magazines to distract her, which I placed on her lap.

There were four other patients in the room: two men, one in his fifties, who was completely bald, and a young guy, who looked about twenty-five and had a full head of hair. Two women sat on Fiona’s side of the room. One looked to be in her mid-sixties, had thinning hair and a very grey pallor; the other was younger – mid-forties, I reckoned – and completely bald. She was wearing bright red lipstick and a funky, multicoloured hat lay at her side.

The older man was working, his briefcase perched on his lap. The young guy was lying back, eyes closed, listening to music. The older woman was knitting and the other lady, who was sitting closest to us, was reading a book and laughing out loud every now and then. Fiona caught her eye and smiled.

She winked. ‘First time?’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘You have that look of terror. It’s not so bad, honestly. I’m Anne.’

‘I’m Fiona. So, uhm, how long does it take before your hair falls out?’

I winced and hoped that Anne would say something comforting, like, ‘Never.’

‘I was bald as a badger after a week, but everyone’s different. Some people don’t lose it at all. You could be lucky.’

‘I feel about as lucky as a turkey on Christmas Day,’ Fiona said, letting her guard down for once.

I laughed a little too enthusiastically, as Anne smiled at Fiona and said, ‘Good girl. A sense of humour will help you more than anything to get through this.’

The oncology nurse came back in and inserted a needle into a vein in Fiona’s arm. She attached the needle to a tube, which would deliver the chemotherapy from a plastic bag into Fiona’s bloodstream. Fiona was told to sit back and relax and wait until all the liquid had gone into her vein – it would take a couple of hours. I went off to get coffee and muffins, but Fiona was too scared to eat, so I polished them off – I hadn’t eaten a muffin in five years: too many calories. So, for someone who had been constantly hungry for five years, they tasted heavenly.

After a few minutes of flicking through magazines, Fiona said, ‘I can’t concentrate. I keep thinking they’re injecting poison into my blood and it’s going to make me worse.’

‘It’s going to make you better, Fiona, I swear it is,’ I said, willing her to believe me.

She smiled at me. ‘I’m sorry, Kate.’

‘For what?’

‘Dragging you home from London and turning you into a child-minder and nurse.’

‘I always quite fancied myself as a nurse,’ I said, grinning. ‘I think the uniform would look great on me. Besides, I’ve enjoyed spending time with the boys.’

‘Really? They can be a handful at times.’

‘True, but I feel that I’m actually getting to know them now, and it’s really nice.’

‘Do you think you’ll ever settle down?’

‘Well, considering that my last boyfriend turned out to be married, I don’t see myself in a white frock any time soon. I seem to have the worst taste in men.’

‘Sam was great,’ said Fiona.

‘Yeah, he was one of the good ones.’

‘Do you ever regret breaking up with him and moving to London?’

‘No. I had to go away and find out who I was and spread my wings, but I’ve certainly never met anyone I liked as much. Still, I’m only thirty, plenty of time for all that,’ I said, smiling at my sister. It was nice, chatting like this, like friends. Our conversations had always been about flight times, presents for Dad and Derek, how my career was going and how the boys were doing.

‘Fiona?’

‘Yes?’

‘Does it bother you that Mark is always so busy?’

She sighed and took on her older-sister tone: ‘He told me you gave him a hard time about not being able to come today. He feels bad enough as it is. You have to understand, Kate, this prize he’s working towards is something that no Irishman has ever dared to go for. It’s incredibly prestigious in the world of mathematics. It’s like an actor winning an Oscar. It’s a really big deal, and if he wins, he’ll be considered one of the leading mathematicians in Europe. I know it might seem selfish, but I am one hundred per cent behind him, so please don’t make him feel bad.’

We were back to square one – the little sister being scolded by the big one. My loathing for Mark was even greater now that he’d ruined my ‘moment’ with Fiona.

She immersed herself in a magazine while I leant back in my chair and thought about Sam and the last time we had met, seven years ago, the year after I’d moved to London. We were at a mutual friend’s wedding and we were both alone, but Sam had gone out of his way to annoy me by flirting with every girl there. It shouldn’t have bothered me: I was dating a cute Australian guy at the time, but seeing Sam again unsettled me more than I’d expected. He looked gorgeous in his tuxedo and he was very pleased with himself, having just landed a job as staff writer on the
Irish Independent
. I was still making tea at Life change, waiting for my break. When we finally met face to face, sparks flew.

‘Hey, how are you?’ he asked.

‘Great, thanks. Fantastic, actually. Things are going really well,’ I said, never one for understatement.

‘Good for you. So, you’re enjoying the cattle market over there?’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve always liked a challenge. Some people are afraid of success, but not me.’

‘No, definitely not you. Have you got a job in television? I don’t recall having seen you on the screen.’

‘Yes actually, I’m a researcher on the Life change morning show. That’s where everyone starts. I should be in front of the camera within the next six months,’ I lied. ‘And I’m going out with Jason, an Australian news reporter, so I’m meeting all the right people,’ I said, as my nose began to compete with Pinocchio’s. Jason was the manager at Bar Oz, the pub round the corner from work.

‘Well, it sounds great, Kate. So it was worth it, then?’ He was staring at me and I felt as if his eyes could see right through me. God, I missed those eyes.

‘I think so,’ I mumbled, thrown by the tingling sensation in my stomach. ‘By the way, congratulations on your new job. Tara told me. You must be really pleased.’

‘Well, for a small-town hick like me, working for the
Independent
is a dream come true – but I’m sure for a big-city girl like you it seems a bit sad.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s great. You deserve it.’

Sam looked at me the way he used to, when he had actually liked me – even loved me. It was a look that had always made me feel ten feet tall. My heart skipped a beat. I could see he still had feelings for me. ‘I miss you,’ I said, reaching out for his hand before I could stop myself.

‘Don’t do that,’ he said, pulling it back. ‘You decided to go to London. You ended our relationship because of your career. You said you didn’t want any ties to Dublin when you left. It was your choice, not mine, so don’t come back here a year later and tell me you miss me.’

‘I thought it was the right thing to do. I needed to be focused,’ I said, as a lump formed in my throat.

‘And now you’ve changed your mind? What does that mean? “I miss you and I fancy sex tonight?” Or “I miss you and realize I made a mistake – I was wrong, stupid, selfish”?’

‘It meant nothing. It was a stupid, momentary lapse. It won’t happen again. Thanks for reminding me why I made the right decision. Have a nice life,’ I said, running off, partly to hide my tears and partly because I didn’t trust myself not to beg him to get back with me. I really missed him. London was lonely and a lot harder to crack than I had imagined it would be. Damn. Why had I said that? Now he presumed I regretted my decision to move to London and, despite everything, I didn’t. I had felt suffocated in Dublin. I needed to explore new places, have new experiences and follow my dreams. To hell with him, I thought. I’ll prove him wrong. He’ll be sorry when he sees me presenting my own show and earning great money.

And that was the last time we saw each other.

15

After dropping Fiona home, tucking her up in bed and placing her anti-nausea tablets beside her, I went to collect the boys from school. I was planning to do a quick sprint to the supermarket to buy her all the comfort food I could think of, then get back to check on her.

But nothing was quick or straightforward with the twins. It was my first trip to the supermarket with them and I had no idea what a minefield it would be. They jumped around like gorillas in the shop, pushing and shoving each other until Jack fell over and hit his head on the floor. He howled the place down and it took a good five minutes and some bribery– in the form of a chocolate bar – to get him to stop crying. Then Bobby insisted on having one too, so for a while there was peace… Until they’d finished the chocolate and started grabbing everything they could reach and pulling it down from the shelves. When Jack dropped a large carton of Ribena, which spilt everywhere, I lost my cool. Most of the contents had ended up over me – which didn’t really matter as I was in my uniform of sweatshirt and jeans – but the floor was covered with sticky liquid. I pushed back my Ribena-soaked hair, pulled a tissue out of my pocket and bent down to try to wipe it up. By the time I turned round the boys were running down the aisle. I tore after them, shouting, like a fishwife, ‘Jack, Bobby, get back here before I smack you.
Jack! Bobby!
’