Paula Spencer (20 page)

She points at the glasses.

—And I'm paying for these, remember.

—Okay.

She picks up her glass again. It wasn't a good idea, coming here. It might have been better at home. Easier. All she wants is to know him. Even a bit. He came to her. He rang her doorbell, nearly two years ago. But he's still the same stiff stranger.

—How's Leanne? she asks.

He moves. He sits back. He's nearly touching the window. His head must feel the cold from outside in the glass.

—How d'you mean? he says.

—Well, says Paula. —She seems to be getting on – I don't know. Fine. And I know you're in touch with her. So —

—She's in a good place, he says. —Today. You know, yourself.

She believes him. There's something about him. She's in a good place. He knows the bad places. He doesn't waste words.

She nods. She starts to smile – the tears grab her face. She's glad she's not facing the rest of the cafe. She quickly wipes her eyes. She swallows back a gulp. She wipes her eyes again.

He says nothing. He does nothing.

She picks up her coffee.

—Sorry, she says.

She puts the glass to her mouth. She's not sure she'll be able to swallow.

She's fine.

She puts the glass back down.

—I've been worried, she says.

He nods.

She wants to cry again. It isn't good. She's letting it fall. She won't be able to come back here.

—She's strong, he says.

She nods.

—Like you, she says.

He says nothing to that. He doesn't move.

She wants to run. She wants to hide and die. She wants to free him, and Leanne and Nicola and Jack.

—How — ?

She stops.

—What? he says.

—No, she says.

She smiles. It's good; she can.

—D'you not want to – I don't know. Kill me?

—No, he says.

—Are you not angry?

—Sometimes, he says.

She makes herself; she looks straight at him.

—It's for me to deal with, he says.

—I'm sorry, she says.

—Yeah.

He nods.

—How? she says again. —How do you stay so calm?

—I don't, he says.

—You do, John Paul. Look at you. You're like a statue. I don't mean in a bad way. But you know what I mean.

—I do the yoga and that.

—Is that all it takes?

—No.

—So?

—I've no big answer.

—Give us a little one.

If it was a film he'd put his elbows on the table. He doesn't.

—I think a lot, he says. —I plan. Make sure I know what I'm doing.

—I'm all over the place, she says. —I can't stay still for more than a few minutes.

—You're doing alright.

—It's killing me, she says. —I mean, it's better. No contest. I'd never go back. But I have to keep, just – running away.

He nods, once.

He's elegant. It's not the clothes. It's him. The strength there that isn't muscle. The independence. There was none of that there when he ran away. Where did he get it? What happened?

—First, he says. —No.

He shakes his head; he dismisses what he's said.

—It's not a list, he says.

—Go on, John Paul.

—I don't have answers.

—Just, please. Say what you were going to say.

—You keep running away. That's what you said.

—Yes.

—You're not.

—I am.

He shakes his head.

—You're doing alright. You're facing it.

—It doesn't feel like that.

—Maybe it doesn't, he says. —But think about it. If you were running away you wouldn't actually be running. You'd have stopped. You wouldn't be bothered. You wouldn't be here.

He's right.

—You're keeping yourself busy, he says. —You have to.

She nods.

—So do I, he says.

He's said nothing new but she had to hear it. He should hate her; he shouldn't be here. But he is. That's why she believes him. That's why, maybe, she believes herself.

—You should give the yoga a go, he says.

—Yeah, she says. —I was actually thinking about it.

She has to ask, but something else runs in front of the question.

—You don't have your asthma any more.

—No, he says.

—How come?

—Don't know. Grew out of it.

She looks at him. She pushes herself; she has to ask.

—Why are you here, John Paul?

—Why are you?

—I'm your mother.

—There you go.

—I haven't been a good mother.

—No, he says. —You haven't.

Fuck, that's cruel.

—But I don't have another one.

He's looking straight at her. His face hasn't changed. His voice is the same.

There's nothing in his eyes.

It's as good as she'll get.

—Was it all bad? she says.

—No.

He picks up his glass. He won't talk until he puts it back down. She watches him drink. He puts the glass on the table.

—I wanted the kids to know they have a granny, he says.

He looks at her.

—It was Star's idea.

She nods. She smiles.

—That's nice, she says. —That's really nice. What about her own mother?

—What about her?

—Was she out of touch with her as well?

—No.

—Oh. I thought, with her mother being a heroin addict and that.

—No.

—God, though. It can't have been easy for the poor girl, growing up like that.

She hears what she's said. She looks at him. But there's nothing there, no sneer or smile.

—Who am I to talk? she says.

—It's a free country.

She doesn't know if she'll come here again.

She keeps falling for it. The happy ending, the Hollywood bit. But this man will never say I love you. Not to Paula. She'll never be able to say it to him. It'll always hang there. She'll always be the beggar.

—D'you think Leanne will be alright?

Leanne is already a safe subject.

—Yeah, he says.

—She's in a good place. You think.

—Yeah.

—That's great; that's brilliant. Did I tell you about your Auntie Carmel?

—What about her?

—You remember your Auntie Carmel?

—I remember Carmel, yeah.

—She has cancer.

—That's bad.

—Terrible.

It's easy, as long as they talk about nothing. Leanne and Carmel are nothing.

She wants to go home. She'll leave him alone.

—What kind? he says.

—The breast, she says. —She'll have to have a mastectomy and the other one – chemotherapy.

—She might be okay, he says.

—Yeah. Please God.

It's easy.

—How is she?

—Yeah, she's grand; she's great.

She's in a good place.

—You know Carmel, she says.

But he doesn't.

—She's all set for the fight.

—That's half it, he says. —The attitude.

He nods at her glass.

—D'you want another one? he says.

—No. I don't think so. Unless. You?

—No, he says.

He puts a hand on his stomach.

—Too much milk, he says. —It kind of sits there.

She knows something about him. The man, her son. He doesn't like too much milk.

Maybe there'll be more.

The tattoo is still there, on his arm. The Liverpool thing. She paid for it years ago, for his fourteenth birthday. She thought it would work. She'd give him the tattoo and he'd forgive her and love her for ever.

She points at his arm.

—D'you still like them, John Paul?

He doesn't look down.

—They're on the way back.

—Is that right? she says.

She's not sure what he means.

—I'm thinking of going to Istanbul, he says.

—Why?

He smiles. She wants to grab his face.

—Champions League final, he says.

—Liverpool are in it? she says.

—Yeah.

—Ah, lovely. In Istanbul?

—Yeah.

—That's, which one? The capital of Turkey.

—No.

—No?

—Ankara's the capital.

How does he know that?

—But it's Turkey, she says.

—Yeah.

—Will it not cost a fortune?

He shrugs. He's loose. He's almost boasting.

—What if you go and they don't win? It'd be terrible, so far away.

—They'll win, says John Paul.

She smiles. She could go with him. She could buy him a jersey. She could buy one for herself,
PAULA
on the back. Liver-pool, Liver-pool!

She wants to lean across and touch his arm, where the tattoo is. She just wants to hold him. To hold him.

It wouldn't work. He's all angles; he's hard. She'd end up with a puncture, the air fizzing out of her.

She just wants to hold him.

—I've got to get back, he says.

—To Star?

She
holds him.

—Work, he says.

—Of course. I'm an eejit.

She stands up. She'll pay at the counter. She touches her face. She's okay. She's fine. She's not too hot.

—This was nice, she says.

He's standing up. He's looking out the window. It's stopped raining. He hasn't heard her.

She gets Jack to show her. She sits at his computer and she types in Mastectomy. She looked it up in his dictionary first. She has it spelt on a bit of paper. She finds each letter and taps. She checks to see the word building up in the box on the screen.

She clicks Search.

She can't take it in. The adventure is quickly over. Surgical removal of a breast. Surgical removal of the entire breast. Mastectomy lingerie. Mastectomy alone compared to lumpectomy combined with radiation. There are too many horrible words. And just too many words.

She doesn't want to give up. She looks down the page; she scrolls. She gets her eyes close to it. She reads. She waits for it to open. But there's too much. She's afraid to go further.

But she does.

She clicks open the first site. The types of mastectomy. Jesus, there's types. Axillary Node Dissection. Sentinel Lymph Node Biopsy. Not one word – she understands none of it. Invasive cancers. Separate incision. Lymphedema. Her eyes fall away from the words. She's stupid. She sits there.

She's checked herself for lumps. There weren't any; she found none. But how does she know? She can't even read properly. How can she trust her fingers, herself? She's never done a test. She's never had a smear. She's not even sure what a smear is, exactly.

She doesn't want to know.

It's just fuckin' stupid.

Cancer Facts 7.5. She's half out of the chair. She straightens up. She concentrates – she tries to. It's Carmel, not her. Preventive mastectomy (also called prophylactic or risk-reducing mastectomy) is the surgical removal of one or both breasts in an effort to prevent or reduce the risk of breast cancer. She reads it again. She understands; she thinks she does. You have a mastectomy to reduce the risk of cancer. But Carmel already has cancer. It's to stop it from spreading further. So why doesn't it fuckin' say that? Where can it spread to? Carmel's being killed by her own breasts.

She's drifting away, making it up. She's always at it.

She looks at the screen again, properly. She really has to get her eyes tested. She can feel the water behind them now. She has to lean right up to the screen. She can feel the heat on her face. Preventive mastectomy involves one of two basic procedures: total mastectomy and subcutaneous mastectomy. She's learning nothing, but meaning is breaking through. She's fighting with the words, with the fuckin' snobs who wrote them. In a total mastectomy, the doctor removes the entire breast and nipple.

Oh, sweet Jesus. Poor Carmel. It's the word there. Nipple. So harmless, and sexy. And funny and lovely. It's one of the clicky words. She clicks. A new page pops up. Dictionary of Cancer Terms. And there's Nipple. It's a cancer term. She can feel her own, protesting. In anatomy, the small raised area in the center of the breast through which milk can flow to the outside. What's cancerous about that? They can't even spell Centre.

She touches her nipples, through her sweatshirt. She looks behind her – poor Jack would die.

The doctor removes the entire breast and nipple. He does in his arse.

She's being stupid.

She's not.

She's not. This is all disgusting. The coldness of it. You can't just click these things and throw them at a screen. The doctor removes. Just like that. The doctor removes the entire prick and bollix.

She's at it again. Making it up. Fighting the facts. Because she can't understand what she's trying to read. Because she won't accept it. The doctor removes. It's happening in a couple of weeks. And the doctor's a woman. Carmel told her – she's lovely. In a subcutaneous mastectomy, the doctor removes the breast tissue but leaves the nipple intact. Tissue is another of the dictionary words. She doesn't click. Her breasts aren't tissue; they never fuckin' will be.

She's stupid. She's lying in bed. She'll try again tomorrow. She can do it in the morning, after she gets back from cleaning the Killester house. She won't give up.

She won't sleep.

Getting angry at words. It's just stupid. Hiding her ignorance. She's no help to Carmel. Just running away again.

She swings from side to side, even in the bed – she can feel herself. She'd get up now and go into Jack's room and turn on the computer and drag her eyes over and across those words again. She'd do it – and she'd feel sick and furious before she was even sitting down. She knows what's happening. She knows what she's up to. And that's not fair – she's not up to anything. John Paul was right. She isn't running away. She did, this afternoon. But she knew already, as she cursed the computer and tried to slam Jack's door; the carpet square in his room is new, like fuckin' grass, so she couldn't slam it properly. She knew she'd be coming back.

She's not going to sleep. She could get up. But she won't. She could read. But that would mean getting up and turning on the light. She doesn't have a light beside the bed – that's something else for her list. And she doesn't want to read. She'd be sick if she saw words packed onto a page. She can feel it, just thinking about it. In her stomach, in her throat. Nipple.

She thinks of Carmel being cut. It's hard to imagine, Carmel asleep, letting it happen. But it's going to happen.

—I might bring me own knife, Carmel said, when they were talking, the last time, three nights ago. —It's a very good one.

—Stop, said Denise.

—It is, said Carmel. —You should see what it does to chicken.

She's sure Carmel's asleep. Snoring away, keeping everyone else awake.

Why would she think that? She's joking. But why would she think it? Denise is the thick. Carmel's the joker. That's the way. Paula's the alco. It's been that way for years,
was
that way. Denise is gormless. Carmel's bitter. Paula's hopeless.

Carmel isn't asleep. Paula isn't hopeless. Denise is having the time of her life.

Paula sits up.

Her mobile is on the floor. She leans out and down, and gets it. She hears herself groan – she keeps forgetting; it's just a habit.

She selects Text Messages. She taps the keys.
Hw r u?
She fires it off to Carmel. She lies back. She puts the phone beside her. She turns the pillow. She lies back again. She puts her hands outside the duvet.

The mobile buzzes. She finds it under the duvet. She was right. Carmel's awake.
Go 2 slp u fuckn eejt.

She laughs.

She replies.
Thnkng of u.

Carmel's straight back.
Thnx.

She puts the phone back on the floor. She lets it drop.

She'll sleep now. She might.

—How's Carmel?

—She's grand, says Paula. —Yeah; she's great. You know.

They're in Rita's sitting room.

—It's a terrible thing, says Rita.

—Yeah.

—Hanging over her like that.

—Yeah.

—And it could happen to any of us, Paula.

—For fuck sake, Rita.

—Don't mind me, says Rita.

—No, I was rude, says Paula. —Sorry.

—She's your sister, Paula, says Rita. —You can be as rude as you like. Will you tell her she's in my prayers?

—I will, says Paula. —She'll like that.

—She can shove her fuckin' prayers, says Carmel.

It's the same day, later. They're in Paula's kitchen.

—Rita's sound enough, says Paula.

—I know, says Carmel. —I know. And I shouldn't be fussy where the prayers come from.

Carmel has the date. She knows when she's going into the hospital. The beginning of June.

—Will you be able to wait?

—I don't have much of a choice, says Carmel. —It's not like the fuckin' hairdresser's. I can't go up the road to the next one.

—Okay, says Paula. —Okay.

They're alone, together. There's no Denise.

—She'll be off riding some dark handsome stranger, says Carmel.

—She's actually gone to the doctor with Harry, says Paula. —He's having his ears syringed.

—Lovely.

—He was afraid to drive the car after. Something about his balance.

—You couldn't make it up, says Carmel. —Could you?

—No, says Paula. —She'll be here later.

—He'll probably keep the fuckin' wax, says Carmel.

—Ah Jesus.

—Make earrings for his loving wife.

Paula has Marks and Spencer's stuff for them. She bought it today, before going on to work. And three new plates, three glasses, two bottles of wine. The red for Carmel, and Denise prefers the white. It's in the fridge. When Denise goes over and opens it, she'll see it's nicely filled. It's Friday night. There's a chicken. There's mince, and a box of eggs. There's yoghurt. There's ice-cream, in the freezer. And pizzas. And, back on the table, there's a brand new corkscrew. Paula bought it today. She got the cork out of Carmel's bottle with it, no bother. The bottle's on Carmel's side of the table.

—You must be nervous, a bit, says Paula. —Are you?

—A bit, yeah, says Carmel. —I'm fuckin' terrified.

Paula gets up and hugs her. Carmel's arms go around Paula. They stay that way for a good while.

—I'm an eejit, says Carmel.

Paula lets go of Carmel.

—Stop that, she says. —Why are you?

—It's only an operation, says Carmel.

—It isn't only anything, says Paula.

—D'you know what it reminds me of? says Carmel. — And it's weird.

—What? says Paula.

—Being pregnant.

—No.

—Yeah, says Carmel. —The waiting. Knowing it's going to happen but not knowing exactly when.

—But you know now, says Paula.

—But it still feels a bit the same. I've even packed a fuckin' bag. I have it at the door of the bedroom. Jesus, Paula, what's that shite Jack's playing?

—It's not Jack's, says Paula.

—What is it?

—It's the White Stripes. I'll turn it off. I'll change it.

—Is it yours? says Carmel.

—Yeah, says Paula.

—For fuck sake.

—Ah, lay off, Carmel. I like it.

She puts the CD into its box. Carmel comes over and picks up more boxes.

—Are all these yours?

—No, says Paula. —Some of them.

—Have you no good stuff?

—Like what?

—Stop being thick. The 70s.

—That's thirty years ago.

—It feels like fuckin' yesterday. What's going on, Paula? Is this something menopausal, or what?

She's holding up Queens of the Stone Age.

—That's Jack's.

Paula's blushing. She can feel her face burn. She'd wanted Carmel to notice the stereo. But she hadn't. It's no big deal. Every house has one, or two or three of them.

Carmel holds up another one.

—Jack's? she says.

—Yeah, says Paula.

How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.

—Like shite, says Carmel. —It's yours.

—Yeah.

Carmel hands it to her.

—Stick it on, she says.

She goes over to the table, sits down again.

—I've never really listened to music, she says. —Even the old stuff. I don't really care. The first couple of seconds is enough.

—I was like that, says Paula.

—No, says Carmel. —You weren't.

'Vertigo' starts. Paula turns the sound down.

—I've heard that one, says Carmel.

—It's all over the place, says Paula.

She sits down.

—I love it, says Paula.

Carmel nods.

—D'you ever think of Wendy?

—Yeah, says Paula.

—Me too, says Carmel.

—She was lovely.

Carmel nods.

—What would she be like now? says Paula. —D'you ever wonder?

—Still lovely.

—Yeah, says Paula.

—She'd be, what?

—Forty-four, I think.

—Jesus, says Carmel.

They laugh.

—Wendy liked her music too, says Carmel. —Didn't she?

—Yeah, says Paula.

—The bedroom wall, says Carmel. —The pictures she stuck up. It wasn't just Donny Osmond and them.

—She loved Led Zeppelin, says Paula.

—D'you have any of theirs?

—No, says Paula. —Jack might.

—Really? says Carmel. —Are they still big?

—I think so, yeah, says Paula.

She doesn't think they've talked like this before. They're like two people getting to know each other – their first date. Or two old friends who haven't seen each other in years.

—That was your man, Ozzy Osbourne, wasn't it?

—Led Zeppelin? says Paula.

—Yeah.

—No.

—Well, that's sorted, says Carmel. —I won't go under the knife thinking that Ozzy Osbourne was in Led Zeppelin.

—Stop.

—I didn't really know her, says Carmel. —The age gap, you know.

—That's only natural, says Paula. —In a big family.

—I was gone before she was really a teenager. And I stayed away.

Paula says nothing.

—Fuckin' regrets, Paula, says Carmel. —That's the worst part of this.

—We all have regrets.

—Just – look it. Listen.

—Sorry, says Paula. —Go on.

—I'm not being morbid, says Carmel. —I'm trying not to be, anyway. And I know my chances are good. And even if the operation isn't, what's it – it's too late –1 know I won't be dying there and then, on the table.

Paula says nothing.

—Unless something goes really wrong. There's a power cut, or the doctor has a game of golf she has to get to, or something.

Carmel sits up.

—But anyway. I'm optimistic. I am. But fuck it, I'm not stupid.

She stops. Paula knows. She isn't finished.

—Dead, says Carmel. —That's the word. You have to get used to it. And you can't help looking back. It seems to be natural, you know.

Paula nods.

—Yeah, says Carmel. —And the good things kind of glide past you. You can take them for granted. But the bad things, the regrets. They fuckin' sting.

—I know, says Paula.

Carmel is looking at her.

—Yeah, she says. —You know exactly what I mean. Sorry, Paula. You become a bit full of yourself when you're dying.

They should cry. But they don't. Carmel nods at the stereo.

—It's shite.

—Fuck off.

Carmel pours some more of the wine.

—So, says Paula. —What stings?

—Things I said, says Carmel.

She shrugs.

—It's stupid, she says. —You can't be going around regretting every fuckin' word. And if I wasn't sick I wouldn't even be thinking about it. But I was a bitch, wasn't I?

—No.

—Sometimes.

—Yeah.

—See?

—We all are, says Paula.

—Yeah, but I'm good at it, says Carmel.

—That's true.

—But that's not really it, says Carmel. —Not really what I mean. I don't think I'm a bad person.

—God, no.

Carmel saved Paula's life, before Paula knew she wanted to be saved.

—No, I'm grand about it, says Carmel. —But I'm going to be nicer.

Paula laughs.

—Fuck off, says Carmel. —I am. Regardless, you know. But it's other things I really regret.

—Like?

—The things I didn't do.

—Like?

—I just wish I'd done more.

She slaps her stomach.

—I got old too fuckin' early. I let myself. Look at me.

She slaps herself again. She lifts her jumper, grabs hold of the flab. And Jack walks in. He's immediately very red. His face is blotched and glowing. It's too much for him. He knows about her cancer, her breast. And Carmel's always been good to him.

—Hi, he says.

He says it to the floor.

—Howyeh, Jack, says Carmel.

—Hi.

—Hungry, Jack? says Paula.

—No, I'm grand.

He turns. He's gone.

—Poor Jack, says Carmel, after they've stopped laughing. —He's probably starving.

—You were saying about regrets, says Paula.

She's at the tap. She's filling her glass.

—There's not much to say, says Carmel, —that isn't obvious. I wish I'd lived a bit more.

—Like Denise.

—No, not like Denise.

She takes a drink. She lowers the glass.

—Okay, she says. —A bit like Denise. But, not really. No real regrets there.

She's started to peel the label off the wine bottle.

—Nothing dramatic, she says. —Just, things. Like, I never go into town. I decided I didn't like it, years ago. And I don't know why. Because I did like it. D'you know what I mean?

—Yeah, says Paula. —I think so.

—You go into town.

—I have to, says Paula. —To work.

—I know, says Carmel. —But you still go in. And it's not just town. It's not even town. It's – I don't know. It's the attitude. You know. There's nothing good. There's something wrong with everything. I'm not really like that at all.

—I know.

—But it's the way I've been. Nothing worth seeing, nothing worth doing. I go to nothing. And now I'm afraid to.

—Why?

—I don't know. I want to be close to home. In case.

—What about Bulgaria? says Paula.

—What about it?

—You said you don't like going into town.

—Yeah.

—But you go to Bulgaria. It's not on the Dart, Carmel.

—Yeah, but that's different, says Carmel. —We did that because everyone else is doing it. It is a good investment, though.

—But you've been there and other places, says Paula. —I don't even have a passport yet.