Will You Remember Me? (9 page)

‘Well that’s good, but I don’t want it slowed, I want it gone!’ She gave a small laugh, embarrassed at having to state the obvious.

Mr Ramasingh looked away from her, concentrating on his computer screen, and a wave of fear shot through her stomach and ricocheted around her bowels. She felt her back stiffen and listened with her mouth agape to what he had to say.

He stared at her once again. ‘I need to tell you, Poppy, that given the type of cancer you have and the stage at which it is at, we can only
treat
it. We cannot cure it. I’m very sorry.’

‘So you are saying…’ She felt confused and a little lightheaded.

‘We can offer you a palliative care programme that can help you in the everyday, but we can’t cure it. I am sorry.’

‘Can’t cure it now, or…?’ She had to ask.

‘Can’t cure it ever.’

Poppy was quiet for a moment. The doctor again waited for her to gather her thoughts.

‘I’m thirty-two,’ she stated, as though he might have missed the fact, or as if this new information might make him rethink his diagnosis.

‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Is that your wife?’ She nodded at the picture.

‘Yes, yes it is.’ He smiled.

She pictured her own family again, all of them at that precise moment, going about their regular day, unaware of the drama unfolding inside these four walls, unaware that this information was going to change their lives too. ‘I… I don’t want to be rude, Mr Ramasingh, but is there any point in me going to see a different doctor? Another consultant that might be able to help me?’

Mr Ramasingh leant forward. ‘You are not being rude at all and I will tell you what I tell every patient of mine who asks me that exact same question when given this news. I
wish
there were a doctor who could give you a better prognosis and could make this disappear. I would refer you to them in a heartbeat. But it is my belief that your disease is advanced and incurable. Mrs Cricket, I truly wish I could say otherwise.’

The two sat in silence for a second or two more. Then Poppy stirred and sat up straight. ‘So, what am I supposed to do now?’ she whispered.

A few minutes later, Poppy wobbled her way across the car park, opened the driver’s door and slid into the car. It started to rain. She watched the fat splotches hit the windscreen and trickle down. It felt like the world was crying and she was glad.

‘Oh God.’ She exhaled.

Poppy turned her face to the window and remembered when she and Martin were little. She couldn’t remember a time when he had not been present, offering words of solace, a warm palm in which to rest her own or the gift of a cola bottle when finances allowed. Her other half, her friend.

‘I’ll always look after you, Poppy Day.’

Gripping the steering wheel, she rested her head on her knuckles. ‘Oh God. Please… please…’

They had agreed to Skype Simon at 6 p.m. Poppy brushed her hair and gave her lips a slick of gloss before spraying herself with a spritz of her signature perfume, Angel by Thierry Mugler; it had always been her favourite. She remembered boarding the plane for Afghanistan and naively trying to take a bottle on board.

‘You know it’s not smellavision, right?’ Martin chuckled.

‘I know.’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘But if I smell nice, I feel good and that makes me more confident.’

They sat close together in front of the laptop, which they had placed on the dining table.

The first connection failed and Poppy was surprised to feel a sense of disappointment. It wasn’t as if she knew this man, her uncle, not really. But on the second attempt there he was, beaming as usual. They continued chatting where they had left off, enquiring about each other’s weeks and asking respectively about Peg and Matilda.

‘Ah, here’s my wife,’ Simon announced, extending his arm out of sight.

Poppy sat up straight and stared at the screen and then a lady came into view. A white woman in her early fifties, with mousy-coloured hair, a fresh, sun-kissed complexion, clear eyes and a smile that rivalled Simon’s.

‘Hello!’ The woman waved enthusiastically, her voice a lovely sing-song. ‘I’m Kate!’

Poppy waved back and couldn’t help but return the smile.

‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ Kate enthused. ‘I mean, the whole thing – finding each other, not just the Skype thing, although that’s pretty brilliant. We use it a lot. I have two children in the UK, well, not children, grown-ups really. My son Dominic and his wife are in Sussex and my daughter Lydia is in London, she’s an artist.’

‘Oh wow, I was always pants at art,’ Poppy said.

‘Oh, me too.’ Kate chuckled. ‘Always too busy reading. Books are my thing. Do you read, Poppy?’

‘When I can, but it’s hard to find the time. My kids are little – well, one’s little and one’s demanding!’ She liked chatting to Kate, liked the fact that they didn’t know she was sick.

‘Ah, inquisitive ones are the best kind. Talking of which, I hear you’ve met our foster daughter, Matilda?’

‘Yes, she’s gorgeous.’
Foster daughter?
Poppy could not have called that.

‘Oh, she really is, keeps me on my toes.’ Kate clasped her hands under her chin. ‘And we are about to become grandparents! Dominic’s wife, Fiona, is expecting, so it’s all very exciting; not for a few months yet, but exciting already.’

Simon edged forward. ‘Kate buys anything small that she can find and has taken up knitting – the poor child.’

Kate nudged him. ‘Oi! I’m getting better.’

‘I think I’m too young to become a grandfather,’ Simon said, though he looked far from concerned.

‘Rubbish, you are absolutely ancient.’ Kate leant into her husband and Poppy saw him nuzzle her head. They were clearly in love and it was nice to see.

‘And Martin, Simon tells me you are a soldier?’

‘Yes, for my sins.’ Martin blushed, conscious of Simon’s status.

Simon chuckled loudly. ‘I don’t think it works like that! Who are you with?’

‘The REME, the Royal—’

‘Electrical and Mechanical Engineers!’ Simon finished.

‘The very ones.’ Martin nodded. ‘How long have you been vicaring?’

Poppy laughed at this new adjective.

Simon laughed too. ‘Oh, all my life really, but formally for nearly thirty years.’

‘Wow, and do you have a church?’ Martin’s interest was genuine.

‘Yes, I do now and we run a mission for kids and people who need a bit of help up at a place called Dennery, not far from where we live, a ten-minute drive inland.’

‘That sounds amazing.’ Poppy thought of all the times in her childhood when she could have done with a bit of help. Having people like Kate and Simon to turn to would have made her life a whole lot better. ‘I’d love to see it.’

‘Well…’ Simon leant in and his face loomed large on the screen. ‘Kate and I wanted to talk to you about that.’ He glanced at his wife, who smiled encouragement. ‘We hope this isn’t too soon or too forward, but we would love to invite you and Martin over. May we send you some tickets?’

Poppy sat back and placed her hand on her chest. ‘Oh God! I don’t know, I…’

‘Wow!’

She and Martin spoke simultaneously.

‘You don’t have to decide now, obviously,’ Kate gushed. ‘But have a think and let us know. Tickets are cheaper to buy here than in the UK and you wouldn’t need to spend a cent once you were here. We have a lovely guest room and you could just potter and sit in the sun and we could all get to know each other a bit. It’d be lovely.’

Poppy beamed, forgetting entirely about the dark shadow of sickness that hung over her future. ‘I can’t believe you’d do that for us! It would be amazing.’

‘It really would,’ Martin concurred.

‘Well, we can chat about it next time,’ Simon said. ‘Hey, how did Spurs get on this week, Martin?’

‘Sorry, what’s that? Bad connection! Didn’t hear the question so can’t answer you, I’m afraid!’

‘I said…’ Simon tried to repeat the question.

‘No, there it is again. Sorry, Simon, completely lost you. Mind you, next week, if our results are a bit better, I might hear you more clearly.’

And the four of them laughed, like old friends. Like family. They agreed to talk again soon.

Martin grabbed his wife by the waist and pulled her onto his lap. ‘We are going to St Lucia!’ He squeezed her tightly and kissed her on the mouth. ‘I knew this was going to be our year, didn’t I say?’

Poppy kissed him back, an aftertaste of guilt on her lips. She hated deceiving him, but hated even more the thought of shattering his happiness. ‘Yes you did.’

Martin and the kids ate supper, a little later than usual, while Poppy locked the bathroom door and stepped under the shower. She could hear Peg and Max chatting and shouting at their dad. He was probably teasing them. It was good to feel the hot, hard jets pummelling her skin. Wiping the water from the inside of the door, she studied the outline of her figure in the wall mirror opposite. She smiled. She didn’t look like she had cancer, she didn’t even feel particularly ill. ‘What the fuck do you know, Mr Ramasinghadoodah? What do you know about me?’

Poppy felt an unexpected surge of energy force its way up through her gut and flow through her limbs. ‘I tell you what you don’t know about me! I got on a plane to Afbloodyghanistan without a sodding passport! I met with terrorists and I bought my man home – that’s what I did! Me! So you can stick your diagnosis where the sun don’t shine. I will not bring illness into this house. I won’t. I’m going to win. Watch me – I’m going to bloody win!’ Poppy clapped and gave a small jump as she reached for her shower gel. ‘Hundreds of people beat cancer, thousands even! I’m going to St Lucia to feel that soft powdery sand slip through my fingers and the hot sun on my face. I’m going to prove you wrong. I’ll take any drug, I’ll do anything, but I’m not going to give up.’ Poppy looked once again at her reflection. ‘I will not.’

‘Mama Mia – here I go again!’ she sang, loud enough for the kids and Martin to laugh into their spaghetti bolognese.

At the cancer outpatients clinic, Poppy kept her eyes lowered whenever she could. She didn’t want to mix with these people. She didn’t want to think of herself as being one of them and she was also fearful of being spotted. She knew how whispers worked in the military community and she was afraid of having her deceitfulness exposed. A couple of women were accompanied by women of similar ages to them – friends, Poppy assumed. Their conversation was jovial, intended to distract. An older man sat looking miserable, next to his wife, whose demeanour was similar. She couldn’t blame them, this was hardly a fun day out. A young guy sloughed off his leather jacket and practically jumped into the chair as he chatted to the nurse like an old friend; maybe he was. Poppy was fascinated by his shiny, bald head and missing eyebrows; he reminded her of a mannequin.

She smiled at the picture Jo had just sent of her with Max at the soft-play centre. He was waist-deep in multi-coloured plastic balls and was clearly loving his adventure. Good old Jo. She hadn’t pried or suspected a thing when Poppy had told her she was going to a routine hospital appointment.

The busy nurse settled Poppy back into a reclining chair and gave her a stack of dog-eared magazines before placing the IV cannula in her arm; it was attached to a pump that would push the drugs into her. Poppy couldn’t help but stare at the plastic apron, gloves and goggles that the nurse wore, wondering how toxic was this shite they were about to feed into her.

Another nurse tucked a blanket around Poppy’s legs before making her way along the line of similar chairs, like a worker bee on a production line. Poppy glanced at the pouch that dripped poison into her veins. She closed her eyes and began planning how she would break the news to Martin. She knew she couldn’t delay any longer but she was dreading the sledgehammer she was going to bring down on their perfect year. She closed her eyes and feigned sleep – anything rather than face the reality of where she was and why.

A full week later and Poppy still hadn’t found the right moment. The better she felt, the longer she felt able to deny the fact that she was ill. She was happy, seemingly unaffected by her first round of chemo. She’d spent the best part of the week in cleaning overdrive, scouring the kitchen floor with such regularity that Peg had pointed out their house smelt like a hospital. She’d defrosted the freezer twice and had even run a bleach-dipped toothbrush between the tiles to clean the grout in the bathroom.

Whenever she had the house to herself, she sat on the sofa and propped the laptop on her knees. Flexing her fingers, she typed in the words ‘cures for cancer’. This threw up a whole host of articles claiming that her type of cancer was nigh on impossible to cure. The medical papers, stats and figures were frightening. She took a deep breath, cleared the search and started again. Delving deeper into cancer blogs and testimonials, Poppy read about a woman who had seen her tumours shrink after eating nothing but a particular mushroom found in Brazil; she made a point of remembering the name, wondering how she might get hold of some.

She devoured page after page of first-hand accounts by people who swore they had been healed by eating vast amounts of kale or tons of asparagus; others had watched their tumours disappear under the hands of a dancing shaman. She read about retreats in California and Mexico, learnt about self-healing, spiritual healing, crystal healing and more. She read of women who had been cured after turning to Jesus and others who had reversed the progress of their disease through yoga, meditation and the odd Gregorian chant. In every spare moment, when Poppy wasn’t cleaning, she scoured the internet, reading obsessively about cancer, its causes and cures, and seeking out the opinions of those who were experts in both. The information was plentiful and confusing.

One day she found a blog written by a cancer patient in Australia and there was one particular phrase in the woman’s diary that resonated:
You always read about that million-to-one chance, the person that makes it against all the odds, and I figure, why can’t I be that million-to-one person? Why not me?
Poppy switched off her computer.