The Two Week Wait (4 page)

‘So how did it go?’ Cath had asked. She’d tried to prop herself up on an elbow, but hadn’t the strength; there were stitches across her abdomen. She was forced to lie
back on her pillow.

‘Good,’ the oncologist had nodded. ‘The chemotherapy shrank the tumours enough so we could operate much more easily.’

‘That’s great,’ Rich had said and smiled at her.

But Cath had remained uneasy. ‘And my ovaries?’

‘We wanted to be sure we’d removed all the cancer,’ the doctor said.

‘So . . . ?’

‘The good news is it hasn’t spread. We have caught it in time.’

‘But my ovaries?’ She
had
to know.

‘We had to remove them.’

‘Completely?’

‘Completely.’ The word stabbed more than any scalpel. Cath closed her eyes as if shutting out the world might obliterate her pain.

*

She buttons her jacket up fully, ready to leave. She should talk to her husband soon; this holiday is a good moment, surely. It’s an uncomfortable conversation to have to
have, but eighteen months have passed since the surgery, and there is no point in putting it off any longer. Time is ticking; they can’t afford to.

‘Louise Burgess?’ calls a man in a pale-blue coat.

Lou rises from her chair. ‘That’s me.’

‘This way, please.’

He leads Lou and Sofia from the hospital waiting room.

‘I take it you’re a friend?’ he asks Sofia, over his shoulder.

‘Partner.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m the radiographer.’ He addresses Lou. ‘Please would you mind taking off your clothes and putting on this hospital gown?’ He draws a curtain so she can
do so in private.

Lou is desperate for a pee. She’s been told to come with a full bladder, and wriggling out of her jeans and knickers makes it worse. She needs to go so badly she can’t even worry
about the scan – she can only focus on getting it over with. She flings her clothes on the floor and doesn’t bother doing up the ties of the gown.

‘Could you lie down here?’The radiographer pats the couch next to the ultrasound machine. ‘Now I’m going to spread some of this gel onto your tummy.’

Lord, it’s cold.

‘What’s that for?’ Sofia steps closer to look.

‘It helps transmission of sound waves to and from the microphone. They bounce off the organs inside your body. In this instance the womb. This computer’ – he gesticulates
– ‘then turns the reflected waves into a picture.’

Sofia peers at the screen. ‘Fascinating.’

Lou wishes they would shut up so he can get on with it. She’s going to wee on him otherwise.

‘Do you want to see?’ he asks her.

‘I guess,’ says Lou, though the prospect fills her with dread.

He turns the monitor towards her and as he moves the microphone back and forth, Lou can make out fuzzy black-and-white shapes, like a TV with its aerial missing, picking up a ghostly channel.
What they indicate she has no idea.

Sofia steps closer and takes hold of Lou’s hand. ‘Are you OK?’

Lou nods. ‘Can you see what’s wrong?’ she asks the radiographer, and grips Sofia’s palm.

*  *  *

In the evening, the sanctuary of the chalet is a well-earned antidote to the challenges of the slopes: if daytimes are marked by bright sunlight and views stretching for miles
across mountaintops, nights are cosy and burrow-like. There is soft lighting, a log stove, and the warm hues of pine-clad walls offset by the deep reds of the local Savoie decor. A chicken
casserole is stewing in the oven and Rich is flopped on the sofa in his favourite tracksuit, his face pink and shiny from hours in the fresh air followed by a bath. He looks so healthy and happy,
Cath feels a surge of love for him. She’s proud of him, his physical ability, his sportsmanship.

‘Can I get you a beer?’ she offers.

‘I think I’d prefer wine.’

She’ll have a glass too; it might help lubricate their conversation. She fetches two glasses and the bottle from the kitchen. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you
about,’ she says.

‘Oh?’ It’s a lousy corkscrew. He sees her struggling. ‘Here, let me.’

She passes over the bottle. ‘It’s just I was thinking today, about . . . Um . . . ’ Lord, how should she tackle this? She should have planned it. He looks up, concerned. She
adds, ‘It’s nothing bad, though.’

‘Thank goodness.’ A defiant pop and the wine is open.

‘Obviously the treatment finishing and being told I don’t need to go back to the hospital for another six months is great news. I’m still so relieved I can hardly believe
it.’

Rich nods. He fills their glasses and raises one to toast her. ‘Fantastic.’ He moves his legs to make room for her. ‘It’s a real milestone.’

Cath sits down. ‘But I know, well, you know, the cancer could come back, at some point. Maybe not now, maybe not for years. We don’t know. Being free of it only means I’m clear
at the moment, not forever.’

‘Yes, I suppose, but I don’t think we should think like that.’

Cath flinches. This is as hard for her to say as for him to hear. ‘But we
do
have to think like that, honey, really. In terms of the big decisions we make, we do.’

Rich frowns; she is aware he doesn’t like her talking like this. He’s said he finds it hard because he loves her; nonetheless they can’t deceive themselves.

She hesitates, then, out of nowhere, she starts to cry. Giant tears plop forth, unstoppable. It takes her aback as much as it does Rich; she puts down her glass so she can gather herself.

Rich moves closer to her. ‘Oh love, don’t. You’ve been so happy this week, it’s been such a wonderful end to such a rotten year, don’t bring yourself down.
It’s OK, you’re OK . . . You’ve made it. You’re out the other side, you did it.’

‘Sorry.’ Cath sniffs loudly. ‘I don’t know where that came from.’ She wipes her eyes on her sleeve.

Rich smiles at her. ‘Well, you’ve not cried all week, so the tears were probably bursting to get out, wondering why they’d not been given an airing.’

It’s true; ever since her original diagnosis, Cath has cried an awful lot. But they’re still not talking about what she’s been trying to say. ‘It’s not the cancer
that’s getting to me, it’s something different.’ She stretches her legs out on top of his and gently nudges him, a signal to stroke her feet. Rich obliges. Perhaps she’ll
start at the end, not the beginning. ‘After you’d gone to your lesson yesterday, I was watching the children on the nursery slopes . . . Anyway, since then I’ve been thinking . .
. ’ She checks her husband’s reaction. He has stopped smiling, appears curious, uncertain. ‘Ever since I was ill, it changed my perspective. My priorities shifted, I re-evaluated
what matters.’

‘Me too,’ he says. They’ve spoken of this before.

‘It made me see how important my friends and family – and you, especially – are to me. I want to make a fresh start next year, and you know I don’t find my job at the
gallery that challenging . . . ’ Another deep breath, then she bursts out, ‘I want to have a baby.’

He looks perplexed. ‘But I thought . . . We were told, after the treatment, that, um . . . it wouldn’t be possible.’

‘I
know
!’ Now she is sobbing so loud, she can hear she sounds ridiculous. She hopes Rich doesn’t see her tears as blackmail, yet is powerless to stop. ‘You
don’t have to remind me they’ve removed my stupid ovaries.’

Rich winces. ‘I know it’s rough, I can only begin to imagine how rough – you’ve been so strong; you’ve been brilliant; I’m so proud of you. I thought over
time that we’d both come to terms with the situation. We’ve talked about it before, and I’m OK with it, love.’

‘I know that too.’ Cath reaches for her wine again, takes a big gulp, trying to stave off her weeping. ‘Or that’s what you say, anyway. But either way, it’s not OK
with me.’

Rich stops stroking her leg. She knows him so well, the way his face falls; she can see him assimilating. ‘What are you saying . . . ?’

‘I don’t know.’ She thinks of the train of toddler snow-ploughs, the little girl who fell over, of Alfie and Dom, and again feels an enormous tug of yearning. ‘I’ve
changed my mind. Last time we talked about it I was in the middle of my treatment – I had to block it out. But I’m in a different place now. We were trying for a baby before I got ill,
remember.’

‘Of course I remember.’ It was because she was finding it hard to conceive they discovered the cancer in the first place. Eventually he says, ‘Do you think we should consider
adopting?’

She’s thought of that. ‘I’m not sure we can. We’re pretty old, aren’t we? Or I am . . . I think you have to be under forty . . . ’ The tears continue falling,
though not as heavily.

Rich gets to his feet, fetches some tissue from the bathroom. ‘We could find out,’ he says, handing it to her.

‘I guess.’ She blows her nose, wipes her eyes. The tissue is covered in black smears from her mascara. She must look a right mess. The wood crackles in the stove; a log tumbles into
a new position. ‘Are you sure?’ she says, presently. ‘I don’t want to pressurize you or anything.’

‘You’re not pressurizing me.’ But Rich is still frowning. ‘I do think you might be right though, that we wouldn’t be eligible.’ He resumes stroking her
leg.

‘Maybe there are alternatives to adoption.’

‘Oh?’

‘Where we use, you know, your sperm . . . ’

‘Mm?’

‘With someone else’s eggs.’

‘Right.’ He sits back, lets out a slow breath, runs a hand through his hair. ‘Oh love, I don’t know about that.’

‘It’s just a thought.’

‘A surrogate, you mean?’

‘Um, yes, perhaps—’

‘Blimey.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Hmm . . . I’m not sure . . . ’

Her shoulders slump. ‘Why not?’

‘I dunno . . . I’m not saying no, definitely. I’d need to think about it. It’s just the whole idea of it. Paying someone to have our baby . . . putting them through the
whole stress of pregnancy . . . ’ He shakes his head.

Cath feels a mixture of exasperation and appreciation. If Rich weren’t so kind and principled, he might not baulk at it; yet she loves him for precisely these qualities. She says,
‘But wouldn’t it be better if at least the child was yours?’

‘I guess . . . I’m sorry, love, you’re a bit ahead of me. You need to give me a while to catch up. You know, I’d kind of put all this on the back burner and
now—’

She jumps at his words. ‘The “back burner” – there you are, see? You hadn’t given up on the idea.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s still there, simmering away.’

He seems spooked by the speed of her interpretation. ‘Maybe . . . ’

‘I know you need to think about this further, and so do I. I only wanted to open up the conversation.’

‘I’m just not that sure about fathering a baby with someone else. You’re my wife. I mean, how would you feel about that?’

‘I don’t know . . . A bit odd, I guess.’

‘Exactly.’ His face clears: he’s come to his conclusion. ‘It’s not a matter of whether we could afford it or not – though I’m not sure we could –
I reckon using a surrogate could cost tens of thousands of pounds. I’m not sure it’s legal here to pay someone, I think you have to go to America. But, anyway, it just doesn’t
feel right, using another woman’s body like some sort of incubation chamber.’

Cath is disappointed, but she understands. She’s not happy with that idea herself.

He pulls her towards him on the sofa to give her a hug. ‘I’m sorry.’

She snuggles into his chest for solace, inhales the scent of his sweatshirt: it smells of Rich himself. She strokes the velvety fabric; she likes this top, it makes him especially cuddly. Before
them the fire is burning low; it could do with another log. The casserole should come out of the oven, too. ‘It’s just I love you . . . ’ she says, lifting her head. Next is the
hardest bit to say. But she’s brought the discussion this far; she has to. ‘And I don’t want to deny you the chance of becoming a father—’

‘But you’re not—’

‘ – just because I can’t have children,’ she finishes.

‘I’ve had time to come to terms with it – all the time you’ve been ill, you know.’

‘But still, you’re younger than me, you’re healthy.’ Does she really need to point this out? ‘I just don’t think it’s fair . . . ’

He pulls away from her. ‘What are you saying now? That I should leave you and go off with someone else? Hell, Cath, you’re my wife and that’s it. Or perhaps you’d like me
to?’ His lips form an angry line.

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’ She is floundering, still trying to get a handle on the issues herself. Still, at least he’s made her stop crying. ‘No, I was talking
about
us
having a child, silly.’

‘Oh.’ A tad sheepish. ‘But how?’

‘I don’t know.’ She throws up her hands. ‘I just wanted to bring it up, because I haven’t. Not since I was ill. It’s not been something I’ve been able
to really think about again till now. I thought I might die, for Christ’s sake, so I was kind of focused on that. But I didn’t. I’m still here. And I know my insides have been
blasted by effing chemo, but you never know, with modern medicine . . . Perhaps when we get home we could explore some of the options, rather than write it off completely?’

Rich sighs, and reaches to pull her close again. ‘It’s only I don’t want you to get your hopes up.’

‘I know, I know.’

He strokes her hair. ‘You’ve been through such a lot already.’

Cath knows he’s right, and that he’s trying to protect her. But she feels tears prick behind her eyes again; in her heart, she knows those are not good enough reasons not to try.

‘It’s just I want to be a mum,’ she says.

*  *  *

Rich’s mind is buzzing. Cath went off to sleep almost the moment her head hit the pillow, and she’s curled up beside him, like a child exhausted by emotion.
Meanwhile he is still trying to get his head round their conversation that evening.

Everyone says how brilliant he’s been about his wife’s illness: what a rock, a treasure. Only last week her mother, Judy, said, ‘Cath couldn’t have got through it without
you,’ which was over the top, Rich reckons. He might have helped make the experience a little less awful, but her getting through it was down to the doctors and Cath herself. He was simply
there. As for being rock-like, he often felt more like a piece of jelly, though he never said so. With Cath all over the place – despairing one moment, defiant the next – the last thing
she needed was to see how distraught he was too.