Before We Say Goodbye

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.

“Right, I’m going, then,” Trish says irritably.

“Wait!” I call, unable to resist it. “Yes, I want hot chocolate.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Abracadabra!” I yell.

Trish looks at me, amused. “No. It begins with pee.”

I think she means please. I huff. Mammy never made me say please. She just did it.

“Please,” I mumble.

She leaves the room, soon returning with a mug of hot chocolate.

What..? “Where are the marshmallows?!” I demand.

“We don’t have any.”

“No! I need marshmallows!”

“Well, you’ll just have to go without.”

I feel the tears coming, but I never cry. I didn’t even cry when Mammy left, because I knew she’d come back. I haven’t cried at all in the two months she’s been gone, because I know she’ll come soon. I bet she’s sent loads of letters, they just got lost in the post.

She’ll visit.

But Trish can’t ruin the hot chocolate. I need it the way Mammy makes it.

I need it.

I do.

“Fine!” Trish says, alarmed. “Don’t cry! I’ll run and get some marshmallows!”

She actually does run, I think she’s scared I’ll cry.

I giggle a bit, and get out of my bed, wrapping my duvet around me. It drags across the floor as I walk to the window.