Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (22 page)

Now a group of
girls, one of whom is a regular customer, has come in wanting hats for a Bridal
Shower High Tea. They’re going traditional and
Madmen
, so fifties style hats, purses and garden party dresses are
the order of the day. Lani and I pull out a few options and just when I think
we have everyone sorted, the door of the shop opens and a man comes in. He has
a letter in his hand but he’s not the delivery guy. Our delivery guy looks like
the guy from
Legally Blonde
but with a
blue uniform rather than brown.
 
He
has very neat hair that’s always in a jaunty side part and he has a freckle
below his left eye. I know this because he’s always staring at me and jiggling
his eyebrows as I sign for packages. This man looks nothing like that. In fact,
his face is so stern, he’s a little scary and his mono-brow looks so much like
a caterpillar, I wouldn’t be shocked if it crawled off his forehead.

“Can I help
you?” I ask, hoping to get him out of the shop before he frightens the delicate
sensibilities of my customers.

“Sophie
Molloy?”

“Yes.”

“For you.” He
hands over the envelope and before I can say ‘disappearing act’ he’s out the
door.

I turn the
envelope in my hand. Surely, I haven’t been summonsed? Doesn’t that only happen
to people on TV law programs? I look over to where Lani is helping the girls
with their final choices and decide I can’t wait a second longer to see what’s
inside this mysterious envelope. Because it can only go two ways
—
either I’ve inherited millions from a long lost
aunt I never knew, or someone is suing me. I pick up the letter opener Brendan
gave me for my birthday last year, jab the point under the lip of the envelope
and slice it open. I slide out the piece of paper and unfold it.

Big. Mistake.
Should have waited until shop was empty.

The letter
opener clatters onto the glass counter top, alerting everyone to my plight. I’m
gripping the counter for dear life, afraid that if I let go my legs won’t be
able to support the terrible weight that’s descended on me. I feel clammy.

“Sophie? Are
you okay?” Lani rushes to my side. Her hand is on my shoulder, gently soothing
but it makes no difference. I can see in her eyes she’s thinking this is about
the cancer — that something physical has happened to me — but it’s
not. She deposits me in a chair behind the counter, where I sit, holding the
piece of paper flaccidly on my lap and staring into space like a zombie.

Our little
group of customers stops and turns, their faces clouded with concern.

“You’re very
pale,” says one.

“White as a
ghost,” adds a second.

“Are you ill?”

“Is there
anything we can do?”

At last, one of
the girls announces that the best thing they can do is to complete their
purchases as quick as possible and leave. So, the girls hand over their debit
cards, gather their newly acquired hats and bags and head to the door.

“I hope she’s
okay,” the regular whispers, as they reach the door. “She’s had cancer, you
know.”

I don’t know
how she knows this and I don’t exactly care.

Finally, Lani
and I are alone. She sits down on the chair next to mine and gathers my free
hand in her lap. “Are you okay? Should I call Dr. Downer?”

“I’m fine.
Well, physically.” I hand her the letter.

Lani’s eyes
scan the page. Now, she’s as white as a ghost. She’s blinking and re-reading as
if she thinks there must be some kind of mistake. But there’s not. We both know
that.

“The fucking
bastard.”

Woah. Lani
never swears.

“My sentiments
exactly.”

As it turns
out, I haven’t inherited millions from a long lost aunt. But my ex
is
demanding his three quarter share of
our property. The letter from Brendan’s lawyer
—
who knew he had one?
—
informs me that Mr. McAllister would like his
share, totalling some nine hundred thousand dollars, given current real estate
values. Mr. McAllister does not wish to take this matter to court and would
like it to be settled as quickly and quietly as possible.

“Where the hell
am I going to get…” I glance at the letter again, “…nine hundred thousand
dollars?”

Then I promptly
burst into tears. These can’t be called tears though; they’re way too big and
wet for that. They’re canals of sadness springing from my eyes.

How could he do
this to me?

After
everything we went through, he didn’t even have the decency to come and see me.
Of course, I’d have given him his share if he asked me. I’m not about to be petty,
but to do it like this? I’ve never said this about anyone, but I hate him. I absolutely
hate him and I wish he’d drop dead.

As I sit and
sob, Lani gets up and silently moves to the door, turning the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’.
She bustles around out the back and returns with a cup of strong, sweet tea.

“We didn’t have
any scotch,” she says, by way of explanation. I sniff, giving her a watery
smile.

We sit. I sip
my tea and stare at the letter on my lap. Lani looks out the window. Then, in a
fit of rage, I screw the letter into a tight wad and throw it as far as it will
go, letting out an angry grunt as I do. This, of course, goes little way to
making me feel better. My missile is made of paper. Even with the most force I can
muster, it’s landed a mere metre away at the bottom of the counter. Not
satisfied, I stand up and stamp my foot on it, imagining it’s Brendan’s head as
I do. Then I kick the waste paper basket, the wall and the corner of the
counter, only stopping because I fear I may have done irreparable damage. To my
toe.

“What am I
going to do?” I repeat. “I don’t have that kind of money. I’ll never have that
kind of money.”

When Brendan
and I first made it official and moved in together, we bought the house in
Floreat. It was a steal for two reasons. One, it needed a total renovation and
two, the couple who owned it had fallen upon hard times during the GFC. The
bank wanted their money. They didn’t care how much it got sold for. We lovingly
put every cent we could into that place, knowing that one day it would be worth
a mint. Financially, he’d contributed more than me, though I always assumed we
were a partnership. I never knew the partnership meant he got seventy-five per cent.

“Could you take
out a loan?”

I flop back
onto the chair and rub my aching toe. “I could try but they’re pretty unlikely
to give it to me. Especially with the loan I got to pay for my breast reconstruction.”

Another
casualty of my relationship with Brendan is that my private health insurance
became null and void. I’ll have to pay the full cost of the reconstruction or
go on a public health waiting list. One that could take years and will give me
no option as to the type of reconstruction I get. And though I rejoined the
fund as soon as I found out, I’ll have to respect the waiting period of twelve
months before I can claim. I can’t wait twelve months. They need to review my
case and let me have my reconstruction now.

I slump forward,
throw my head into my hands and groan, entirely aware that my stress levels
have shot through the top of my head and stress is not good. Stress increases the
risk of the cancer returning in spades. Taking a deep breath, I try to clear my
head.

“There’s always
your parents,” Lani offers.

“No! Absolutely
not.”

We sit for a
minute longer, racking our brains for possibilities. Lani sneaks a nail into
her mouth and nibbles in a fashion resembling a mouse gnawing at his last
morsel of cheese.

“I’ll have to
sell the house,” I say. ‘There’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to sell and
Rory and I can move into a flat. Grover will have to go, too. There’s no way he
can live in a small space. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Lani looks
devastated. “But you put so much work into the house. You love living there.”

“I know. But
when it boils down, it’s only a house. Home is where Rory and I are together. I
only wish I could do it in a few months, after everything’s settled down.”

With a heaving
sigh, I drink the last of my mug of tea and take it out to the kitchen, where I
wash it and leave it upside down in the dish drainer to dry.

“You’d better
get that ‘open’ sign turned back around,” I call to Lani, who’s straightening
up the mess from the waste paper basket. “If I have to pay for a lawyer and a
private doctor, we’re going to need a truckload more customers.”

*****

That afternoon,
when I get home, I stand for a long time gazing around the home that Brendan
and I built. I love this house but I have no choice but to leave it. Even
though everything has gone so horribly wrong, there are memories here, a
feeling that makes me comfortable. I had it the first time we walked through
the door and I would have had it even if I hadn’t been with Brendan. Leaving
will be difficult and Rory’s going to be devastated when I break the news.

Breast Cancer
has taken so much more from me than a breast.

I thump my palm
into the wall. I don’t understand why Brendan has done this. Why now? It’s not
like I wouldn’t give him his share. I’m not vindictive or mean. A few more
months wouldn’t have made a difference; we’re both contributing to the
mortgage. Why does he have to add more stress to my life? It’s as if he’s
punishing me because I ruined his life by getting cancer or something.

Now, I’m angry
again. I want answers and if nothing else, I feel I’m owed them so I pick up my
mobile and go out onto the deck to call him, away from Rory’s supersonic
hearing.

Pacing the
deck, I hear the phone company say the number I’ve dialled is no longer
connected. Seriously? He’s changed his number so he won’t have to face me? My
anger, dormant for such a long time is fuelled and ready to combust. It’s being
fed by the emotions I’ve suppressed since Brendan and I got together, the ones
he considered weak and girlie.

I dial his work
number.

“Good
afternoon, Golden Realty. How may I help you?”

I try to
disguise my voice. I know, Tracey, the receptionist won’t put me through if she
recognises me.
 
“Hello, may I speak
with Brendan McAllister please?”

“In regards to
what?”

So, he’s
vetting his work calls more closely. Cowardly prick.

“I’d like some
information about a property he has listed.” I rattle off the address of a
property I know is still for sale. I’m surprised how calm and normal I sound,
given that I’m doing an impersonation of a pressure cooker about to flip its
lid.

“One moment
please.”

The wait seems
interminable. And the longer it goes on, the higher my blood pressure gets.

“Brendan
McAllister.”

It’s been
weeks. He sounds the same. He doesn’t sound sad or depressed which makes me
even crosser.

“You fucking bastard.”

And there
begins my rant. For the next five minutes, I tell Brendan everything I ever
wanted to say but held back on for the sake of our relationship. I stop short
only at mentioning his prowess in bed, because that would be a bit below the
belt.

The other end
of the line is silent as he absorbs my tirade. Then he says, “Are you finished,
Sophie?”

“Don’t
patronise me. You know I’m not supposed to be stressed because of the cancer.
Did you not have the decency to wait before you dropped this bombshell? It’s
bad enough you cleared out our accounts and cancelled the medical insurance
without consulting me. Because of you, I’m no longer covered and have to pay
full price for my reconstructive surgery. That’s almost eight thousand dollars,
Brendan. Eight thousand dollars, which I had to borrow from the bank because
you closed our insurance account. And now you want to take the house too? I put
up with the humiliation of not being able to pay the grocery bill because you
cancelled my card. I had to hide my stunned look at the dentist’s the other week
because I didn’t know what you’d done and the payment wouldn’t go through. What
am I supposed to do after you take the house? Do you want us to live on the
streets?”

“You have the
shop.
 
If you want the house, sell
the shop. I can list it for you.”

Give. Me.
Strength. If I could jump through the phone and throttle him, I would. My hands
are shaking so much it would be a quick process.

“And then what
would I do for income?” My voice has become a high-pitched, frenzied squeal. “Seriously,
Brendan. Can’t you wait for a couple more months or at least until after my
surgery? I’ll put the house up for sale, then. But I can’t move house and have
surgery at the same time and I don’t need this amount of stress right now.”

“Put the
surgery off, then. It’s not like you’re dying anymore.”

“You fucking,
fucking prick.”

“Look Sophie, I
want my money. I want to purchase elsewhere.” He’s calm and quiet. He sounds
like a total stranger, a cold hard man, not the man I was in love with. Any
scrap of empathy he may have had has disappeared along with the furniture.