Will You Remember Me? (8 page)

Poppy felt the room spinning; she gripped the chair to steady herself. ‘I’m really sorry to be rude, Jo, but I think I’m going to go and have a lie down, I don’t feel too good.’

‘That’s fine. Are you all right, mate?’ Jo settled Max on the chair and reached for her cardigan, phone and keys. ‘Actually, you don’t look great. Think you’re coming down with something?’

Poppy shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘Can I do anything, get you some paracetamol, look after the kids?’

‘Thanks, honey, but we’re fine.’ Poppy wanted her to go so she could lie down.

‘I was thinking of heading off anyway,’ Jo lied. ‘I’ll leave you lot to it.’

‘But I need to do your lipstick!’ Peg wailed.

‘Tell you what, Peg, I’ll come back tomorrow and we can finish off then, okay?’

‘S’pose.’ Peg thrust her bottom lip out to show her disapproval.

It was early evening and the kids were tucked up. Martin, having washed up the tea things, went upstairs and sat on the bed where his wife lay bathed in the honey-coloured glow of the lamplight.

‘How you feeling, babe?’

Poppy sat up. ‘Bit better now, thanks. Sorry to leave you lumbered, I just felt crappy.’

‘Reckon you’ve been overdoing it. Maybe it was more of a shock hearing about Simon and your nan than you let on. I still don’t know what to make of it all.’

‘Me either,’ Poppy agreed. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’

‘I’m a bit worried about you.’ He ran his fingers over the bare arm that poked from under the duvet.

Poppy took his hand in hers as she sat up straight and supported herself against the pillows propped behind her. She gave a small cough. ‘I went to the doctor’s today…’

‘You did?’

‘Yes.’ Poppy scanned the ceiling, mentally searching for the right words.

‘You all right?’ He sounded a little impatient, irritated to have been left out of the loop.

‘Well,’ she swallowed, ‘there’s something we need to talk about—’

Martin jumped up and punched the air. ‘I bloody knew it! I knew it! You’ve been a bit of a pain in the arse these last few days and I sat on the loo earlier, trying to think of how to make you happier, and it clicked. After what we’d spoken about with Peg, when she thought she was getting a baby brother or sister. And we have been rather frisky since I got back.’ He kissed her hand. ‘I thought to meself, Poppy’s not miserable, she’s worried!’

‘Mart—’

‘No, it’s all right, babe, I know what you’re going to say – it’s very early days, but you think you’re up the duff, don’t you?’ He sank down onto the carpet by her side of the bed and placed his head on his palm, propped up by his elbow. ‘It’ll be bloody brilliant. Don’t worry about the space or money, we’ll figure it all out, we always do, right? If it’s a girl, she can go in with Peg and if it’s a boy, then we can move both boys into the big room and Peg can go into Max’s room. She’ll kick off, but I’m sure we can sweeten it with a splash of pink paint and a few cushions!’

‘Martin, please.’

He sat back on his haunches. ‘What? Too excited too soon? I know, but I can’t help it. A baby! Oh, mate, this’ll be the making of us. It’ll all be fine, it always is with us. Peg will go nuts and Maxy will be the big boy – imagine that. He can teach it how to count, if nothing else!’

Poppy shook her head. ‘I’m not pregnant.’

Martin stared at her, still with his grin fixed. It was a little while before he spoke. ‘No?’

‘No, love.’

He sat back on the carpet and folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the wardrobe and looking confused and slightly embarrassed. ‘Blimey, I thought that was what you were going to say. I would have sworn…’ He stared at his wife. ‘So what was the doctor’s all about then?’

Poppy studied her fingers as they fidgeted in her lap. ‘I’m poorly.’

‘Well I guessed at that much, you silly moo. You don’t go to the quack if you’re feeling great, do you?’ He gave a small snort of laughter, trying to lighten the mood; already his breathing was coming a little too fast. The vein on his neck pulsed. ‘Is it… period business?’

Poppy gave a small laugh in spite of herself and the gravity of the conversation she was trying to have.
Period business.
They’d been together since they were fourteen and yet he was still shy, awkward at having to mention or observe this most basic of bodily functions. She went quiet, unable to locate the words that hovered on her tongue.

‘No, it’s not period business.’

Her tongue stuck to the dry roof of her mouth. She practised the words in her head. ‘It’s cancer, Mart. I’ve got cancer.’ That sounded too blunt; maybe it should be ‘They think I’ve got cancer,’ and give him a small ray of hope on which to focus. She looked at the worry etched on his face. It didn’t matter what she said or how she phrased it, she was going to shock him, upset him and smash the serenity in which he thought they lived.
How? How do I do that to you, my love?

Max let out a wail from his bedroom. ‘Maxy’s awake!’ Peg shouted from hers. ‘It’s okay, Maxy, Mummy’ll be in in a sec!’

Poppy smiled and closed her eyes for a second and she saw it, saw how she would shift in an instant from wife to patient, from lover to invalid and she didn’t want that, not yet.

‘I’ve got some fluey bug, apparently.’

‘Oh no! You should have said earlier. Can I get you anything?’ Martin was already standing and making for the door. Busy, preoccupied as ever, this was their life.

‘You can go get that Maxy!’ She smiled at her man.

Martin nipped across the floor and kissed her on the forehead. ‘You should have said you weren’t well. Tell you what, you nod off and shout if you need anything. A good night’s sleep and you’ll feel as right as rain. Don’t worry, just go to sleep. Ssssshhh…’ He crept backwards out of the room.

‘I’m sorry about the baby thing, Mart.’

He looked back at his wife. ‘Don’t be. I’m happy with the practising!’ He winked at her and went to grab the crying Max.

Poppy stared at the back of the closed door and wished that she
could
wake up feeling right as rain, without the stone of anxiety sitting in her stomach and with her mind free from the worry about what the future might hold.

Poppy sat in the large consulting room with its examination couch and wide desk with two armchairs positioned in front of it. She was grateful that Jo had agreed to sit with Max, who had been sleeping soundly on his beanbag when she left. He would only have been grumpy if woken. She was also thankful to be by herself. Alone, she was able to keep her emotions in check, stay calm. With someone she loved by her side, she would have been concerned about them and unable to concentrate on what was being said, unable to freely ask the many questions that filled her mind.

She looked at the wooden-framed photo on the desk. His wife, she assumed. A beautiful woman with a dark, glossy ponytail that Poppy was sure would swish this way and that as she sauntered – this stunning lady could rarely have cause to hurry, after all. Looking like that, she must surely lead a charmed life. The woman beamed into the lens, revealing perfect white teeth behind the full cupid’s bow of her top lip. Two boys of similar ages, maybe three and four, each with a thick dark cap of hair, stood behind her. They were wearing matching stiff white shirts and had her mouth, but smaller, and studious eyes, maybe the eyes of their dad. Poppy wondered why the picture was facing out and not towards the chair that would shortly be occupied by the consultant she had come to see, Mr Ramasingh.

Perhaps it was a reminder to those whom he addressed that he too was a family man; perhaps it was meant to show that he understood and recognised that his words, casually issued, had far greater implications than the mere explanation of numbers and ticks on the charts to which he referred. Maybe. Or maybe a previous nosey patient had turned it round for a gander and forgotten to turn it back. This filled her with instant dread: supposing he thought she had done it? She toyed with the idea of repositioning it, but then the door opened and she heard his voice in the corridor behind her, and that of a female.

‘What can I get you?’ The woman sounded chirpy, a little flirty and familiar.

Mr Ramasingh’s reply was thoughtful; he was in no hurry to get to Poppy, who sat counting the seconds, clasping and unclasping her hands as she sat in front of his desk.

‘Oh, the usual please, Gill. Chicken or tuna on wholewheat or whatever and if they have them, a couple of those little blueberry muffins, or cranberry, and a coffee, large.’

‘Coming right up!’ Gill laughed.

Poppy heard the soft tread of Gill’s shoes as she walked along the corridor. Mr Ramasingh pushed the door wide and Poppy saw his mouth straighten into a thin line and the crinkle leave the outer edges of his eyes as his smile slipped into something closer to a frown.

‘Hello, Poppy. Sorry to have kept you.’

She blushed, feeling strangely shy in front of this man who was probably, in some corner of his mind, thinking about his tuna on wholewheat and his blueberry muffin.

‘How are you?’ he asked as he took up his seat and placed a file upside down on the table in front of her.

Poppy considered her answer. Gone were the days when she casually offered ‘Fine’ in response to everything. ‘Fine. I’m fine.’ She had recited the phrase throughout her childhood, even when it was far from the truth. Her memory was peppered with the avoidance of honesty when it came to enquiries about how she was faring. Embarrassment and fear were equal partners, forcing her to skirt around the issues.

But not any more. It was one of the freedoms afforded her by her new situation. She could be honest, she had nothing to lose and she was far, far from fine.

She took a deep breath. ‘It’s hard to describe how I’m feeling; it changes throughout the day and night. Most of the time I feel frightened and a bit sick, but I might only be feeling sick because I’m so frightened and not because of the erm… you know.’

Mr Ramasingh nodded. ‘That’s understandable. Take another deep breath: it’s a good thing to do. You’ll be surprised how much it helps. Just getting your breathing under control can make you feel a lot better, less afraid. It’s okay.’

Poppy felt a flicker of relief.
It’s okay
. That’s what he’d said. Was it a clue? Was it all over before it had even begun? She smiled at the thought.

The consultant placed his elbow on the desk, cupped his clean-shaven chin with his left hand, and with his right tapped at the keyboard of his computer. He was handsome, with thick dark hair that was cut into a neat crop. His wide eyes were hidden behind the square black frames of his glasses. She found it hard to guess his age; he could be a fit, healthy fifty or a not so fit thirty, someone who’d had a tough paper round.

Poppy watched as he studied the screen before knitting his hands into a little basket and placing them on the desk in front of him. He looked her straight in the eye and for his direct gaze and blunt delivery, she was grateful.

‘I have looked at all your test results and have shown them to the team here. I’m afraid that it’s not good news, Poppy.’

And just like that, any small flicker of hope, any tiny flame of reprieve was extinguished and Poppy knew immediately that telling the kids was now unavoidable. This was her overriding thought – not what the horrible disease might do to her, but that telling her family would bring sadness and illness to their door. What would she do? Tell Martin first? Yes. Yes of course, then Granny Claudia. Then what? Sit Peg down on the sofa, or maybe take her for a walk. Wherever she told her would become a place forever tainted for them both. Should she be honest, open? How much to explain to her little girl? Max was probably too little to take in much of anything.
Oh God.

‘No?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I have studied the results of your biopsy, scans and blood work. And we can see from the tests we have performed that your cancer is not the one isolated tumour that we had hoped for.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ She cringed at her words, inadequate and child-like. Poppy was struggling.

‘It
is
a shame.’ He smiled at her. ‘You have a number of tumours, not just the one that we have located in your breast. Do you know what that means, Poppy?’

She shook her head; no, she didn’t know what any of it meant.

‘It means that you have metastatic breast cancer. It has spread.’

He watched as the information filtered into her brain. He gave her time to mentally catch up.

‘Where has it spread?’ she eventually asked.

Mr Ramasingh again offered the words slowly. ‘It has spread to your bones.’

‘My bones?’ Poppy took a moment to replay this in her head; it didn’t make any sense. ‘How did it get in there? I don’t understand.’ She had pictured her lump as the bad thing in her body, but was unable to think of other lumps inside her bones.

It was Mr Ramasingh’s turn to take a deep breath. His voice was soothing, calm and steady. Poppy had quite forgotten he was waiting for his lunch.

‘Cancer can be complicated. It is made up of millions of cells and sometimes those cells can break away from the original tumour and travel to the bones in different parts of the body, through the lymph or blood system.’

‘Is this what has happened to my cells?’ she asked, picturing the cells as tiny blob-like creatures riding in pedalos around her bloodstream.

‘Yes.’ He gave one nod.

‘So what do I have to do to get better?’ Poppy wanted to show him her resilience, give him faith that she would fight. ‘I’ll take any medicine, do chemotherapy or whatever and I’ll work really hard at it. I’m not afraid of getting stuck in and doing what I need to.’ She smiled at him, feeling like an interviewee for a job she desperately needed, trying to convince him to take a punt on her.

Mr Ramasingh’s fingers drummed lightly on the tabletop. ‘We will make a plan for your treatment, Poppy—’

‘That’s good, thank you,’ she interrupted.

‘There are things that we can do to minimise and manage your pain and to slow the progress of the disease. We will start your chemotherapy as soon as possible and we will keep monitoring your progress with scans and X-rays, to see how the treatment is progressing.’