Before We Say Goodbye

Chapter Three: Polystyrene Memories

Chapter Three - Sophie

Marie Curie.

Steve Jobs.

Ted Kennedy.

Sydney Pollack.

Me.

And millions of other people.

We all have one thing in common.

Cancer.

Steve Jobs, Ted Kennedy and Sydney Pollack died of cancer. I’m dying of it. Marie Curie tried to find a cure. Cancer ruins so many lives.

Trish took me to hospital again to collect the rest of my medication. I wish she let me stay at home, but the little ones were at school, and Dad’s out, and Trish didn’t want me at home on my own. Because I have a brain tumour. And she’s scared.

I hate everything. I don’t…ugh. I can’t think straight. I’ve got another really bad headache. When I told Trish how much it hurt, I think she’d briefly forgotten that I’m ill, since she sent me down to the hospital café to get a drink. Whenever I had a headache when I was little, she always made me a drink of hot chocolate. And afterwards I always felt better.

I wish hot chocolate was still enough to take away the pain. I really do.

I sit on a hard plastic chair, a loner, drinking some disgusting hot chocolate out of a polystyrene cup just for the memories.

“Daddy,” I moan, shivering.

It’s early morning, and I feel freezing. I think it’s snowing outside. I miss Mammy. She would come in and hug me till I felt warm.

But if Daddy and Mammy hadn’t split up, we wouldn’t be living in this freezing flat with no heating anyway. But Trish doesn’t work, and Daddy’s work doesn’t give him enough money to keep us comfortable.

When Mammy was here, she worked as well, so we were just fine.

But Trish is so lazy. I hate her.

Why won’t Daddy come and warm me up?

“Daddy!” I say, louder.

He probably can’t hear.

“Yes, Sophie?”

I open my eyes and peek out from under my duvet. “Daddy?”

No. It’s her.

“What are you doing here?” I say, scowling.

Trish smiles flatly. “You called.”

“No, I called Daddy, not you.”

“Daddy’s busy. So it’s me or no one.”

Fine. I’ll be fine, if she goes away.

I pull the duvet up to my chin, glaring at her all the while. “I don’t like you,” I say boldly.

Trish sighs. “And don’t I just know it,” she mutters. “Do you want hot chocolate?”

I bite my lip. I love hot chocolate, especially when Mammy makes it, with the marshmallows melted half way, just right, and the hot chocolate all thick and maybe even burning my tongue. But from Trish? I can’t decide whether to give in to the temptation of warmth, or keep the memory of hot chocolate just for Mammy.