I have cancer.
I have cancer.
I have cancer.
I keep hearing it. Over and over and over. Resounding. Continuous. Noxious.
Sometimes I hear it in Millie's voice, sometimes in my mother's. But it's all I've been hearing for the past two days.
I have cancer.
I'm already losing track. I'm not living as much as I am existing or drifting from one moment to another and I can barely distinguish between the memories and reality. My past has come back and moulded itself into my present in the cruellest of ways.
I thought it was over. It was the one thing that consoled me after my mother left. It's over. It's finally over. No more fighting. No more cancer.
I was wrong.
I can't believe I'm back at the start of this horrendous waiting game.
I keep thinking of her. My mother's face was calm and attentive, as she said, "The results are out. It's not good."
We sat together in our grey and purple living room. She held my hands, just like Millie did. She waited for me to fall apart, careful, ready to put me back together, but I didn't. I couldn't because I didn't know what cancer meant. But I had so many questions.
Will you need chemo? Will your hair fall out? Will it grow back if it does? Where is it? What is it? When will it go away?
My fourteen-year-old self could not grasp what those three words meant or how life-changing they would be. I couldn't fathom how it would not be okay, even though my mother said over and over that it would. How she couldn't fight it and she wouldn't get through it despite all her promises.
But when Millie said those exact same words, I did not have questions. My brain did not have room for questions because it already had all the answers.
I have cancer.
I know exactly what that means now. I know what it is and how it will turn our lives upside down, inside out. I know that it will not go away and that we will not be okay. I know how hard and how painful it is, and I know exactly how bad taking the treatment will be. I know that even though she will fight very hard because that's what Millie does, she fights, she might not make it and there is nothing she can do about it. There is nothing I can do about it.
And what leaves room for little else in my brain, in my lungs, is the crushing pain and the emptiness I know I will feel when it is over.
"I'm sorry, can you tell me where the tumour is?"
What?
I struggle to focus on the hazy silhouette in front of me until a very tall, very pretty woman with long, brown hair and a slightly irritated expression materialises in front of me. Pop music explodes in my ears as though somebody just unmuted the radio. A sharp pain shoots through my right ring finger and, looking at my hand, I realise that I'm bleeding. I've been biting my nails again.
I look around and remember I'm at work. I quickly hide my hand behind my back.
"I'm sorry. What did you say?" I ask the pretty lady.
"Where are the toners?" she repeats a little too slowly and a little too loudly.
"They're right here by the moisturisers, Miss," Sandra replies, rushing over to save the day again.
I lower my eyes to the floor, vaguely embarrassed that this is the third time this happened today.
"What is wrong with you?" Sandra hisses pulling me to the side. "You have been completely out of it. I know something happened between you and Sosa, but whatever it is snap out of it! I'm not going to keep picking up your slack. Even if you are The Boss's new pet."
I look at her disbelievingly. His pet?
I want to slap her. I really want to slap her. I want to scream in her face and tell her to shut the hell up because she can't even begin to fathom what is wrong with me. I don't know what Sosa told her but she has no idea that everything around me is falling apart again, and once again I have nobody to turn to.
Sosa changed her shift without warning. I've been trying to call her for the past two days but she's not answering. She hasn't returned any of my texts either.
This morning I went to pick her up as usual but her mother said it was her day off and slammed the door in my face. When I arrived at the store, I found the shutter open, the lights and computers on and Sandra behind the counter.
I look back at her and breathe in. Then I breathe out. I somehow remind myself that none of this is Sandra's fault. She doesn't know anything and she won't understand even if she did. She is not Sosa. She's not my mother and she's not Millie. She doesn't even know Millie. She can't possibly understand.
I mumble an apology and try my best to stay focused for the rest of the shift.
#
The familiar smell of Nanna's cooking greets me as soon as I open the door but it doesn't bring with it the usual feeling of comfort. It's gut-wrenching. It fills my lungs, infiltrates my liver, permeates my stomach and makes me want to vomit. I fight back the tears and clear the cobweb in my throat to announce my arrival.
Millie appears in the kitchen doorway wearing her red apron, the one with the pink hearts, wooden spoon in one hand, dishcloth in the other and her beautiful smile perfectly balanced on her face.
"Hey, sweetheart. How was your day?" she asks warmly.
I notice the sparkling clean countertops. The chairs are upturned on the table and the floor is spotless. I hear a familiar modern tune coming from the radio and realise it is still on the station Jeremy changed it to on Sunday.
Jeremy.
I haven't heard anything from him either. Sosa's voice echoes in my skull again.
One of his whores.
I open the top drawer to get another dishcloth with the intention of helping Nanna Millie dry the dishes, but I close it quickly when I remember that cleaning and cooking are my grandmother's way of coping with stress. When she found out that my father had been gambling away our money, she scrubbed the house from top to bottom overnight. The next morning, she baked enough muffins and biscuits for all our neighbours and workmates.
"Okay," I lie as I take down the chairs and sit on one of them. I didn't tell her about my argument with Sosa. I figure it's the last thing she needs to be worrying about right now. "What about you? How was your day?"
"Brilliant," she answers excitedly. "I cleaned out your room and sorted your wardrobe. No offence, honey, but it was a mess. I organised your dresses and shoes by colour."
I regard her thoughtfully as she floats dreamily about the room. How long are we going to keep this up? How long are we going to pretend that nothing is happening? Something big is happening. Some things need to be happening. And quickly.
"Did you make the appointment, Nann?" I ask, my voice cracking mid-sentence. I wince at the sound. I want to be brave. I want to be strong for her. Why can't my voice be strong too?
Nanna freezes in the middle of polishing the mixing bowl. She takes a deep breath and sets the bowl on the counter, leaving the dishcloth inside it.
"You don't have to come with me, Ally. I know you want to," she adds before I can protest, "but I also understand how hard this must be for you, to have to go through this all over again."
I feel my lower lip quivering and I bite on it hard.
"It's going to be different this time," she goes on. "I promise."
I shake my head. I want to tell her not to make promises like that. My mother did that. She felt like she owed it to me to survive. But I don't say anything. I can't bring myself to speak. I attempt to give her an assured smile instead, but I'm not sure I manage that either.
"When is the appointment?" I repeat stubbornly.
"Friday at eleven," she sighs resignedly.
My heart drops about two inches in my chest. I have work on Friday. Then, it sinks all the way down to my gut as I realise that I have to ask Sosa to take the day off and Sosa is not talking to me.
"I'll be there," I reply.