Best of Friends (30 page)

His voice was so calm. His eyes were still clear and dry, his thoughts far away in Sally’s hospital room. Abby felt the first tear slide down her cheek, then another, faster and faster, following the same trail, dripping unchecked onto her shirt.

“I wish I was religious,” he was saying. “Then I’d believe in all the things people say, like ‘When it’s her time, it’s her time,’ or ‘God has chosen her now.’ Or even find comfort in the thought that I’d see her again in another life.”

Abby realised she was holding her breath.

“But there isn’t another life.” Steve’s voice was flat. “I don’t believe in it. If Sally dies, it’s over. I will never see her again. How can that happen?” For the first time, he looked directly at Abby. “How can they say there’s a God if He can let this happen?”

Abby shook her head mutely, tears still falling.

“She’s so good and kind. The world is a better place with her in it.”

“I know.” Abby managed to rasp the words out. “She’s wonderful.”

Steve smiled at her, not a faint movement of the lips, but the broad smile of a man speaking proudly about the woman he loved.

fifteen

L
izzie brought a bouquet of her own roses to the hospital a couple of days later. She didn’t plan on trying to visit: she only wanted to leave some token to let Sally know she was thinking of her.

At the hospital, the reception desk staff told her to take the roses up herself. Lizzie walked up the stairs to Sally’s ward and, at the landing, she bumped into Delia Richardson emerging from the lift. It was Delia’s silvery blonde hair that she recognised, otherwise she would have walked right past without saying a word. Because Steve’s mother had aged in the weeks since Lizzie had seen her. The lively, brighteyed Delia from the party had vanished, and in her place was an old woman with a gaunt, worried face and red eyes.

Lizzie reached a hand out. “Delia, hello, it’s Lizzie Shanahan.”

Delia’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Hello, Lizzie.”

“I wanted to leave these flowers for Sally. I’m not coming in, I didn’t want to intrude, but Sally always admired my roses …”

“They’re lovely. I’ll take them in for you.”

“How is she?” asked Lizzie, then hurriedly added, “I’m not trying to pry, I just hope she’s doing all right.” That sounded so lame, she realised.

The other woman shrugged. “She’s doing as well as can be expected. She’s so frail, I hadn’t realised how thin she’d got. It’s in God’s hands now.” She made a sign of the cross and then wiped away the tears that started to well up in her eyes. “I’m sorry, I can’t stop thinking of Jack and Daniel without their mother. It’s not fair, Lizzie.”

“If there’s anything I can do,” Lizzie begged, hugging Delia, “anything, please call me.”

“Sorry.” Delia pulled away and tried to compose herself. “I can’t seem to cope with this at all. The doctors don’t talk about curing her, Lizzie, they talk about giving her more time. It’s breaking all our hearts.”

Lizzie fumbled round in her bag and found a pen and an old receipt to write her name and number on. “Please, Delia, if there’s anything I can do, please phone. I can look after the boys or make some food for Steve … anything. I’d just like to help.”

“Thanks,” said Delia.

Lizzie walked slowly back downstairs, the spring gone from her step.

She knew several women who’d been diagnosed with breast cancer and had come out the other side. Myles’s older sister, Noreen, had had a mastectomy and, shortly after Lizzie and Myles had divorced, Noreen had celebrated passing the magical date of being five years free of the disease. There were so many success stories in the arena of breast cancer, so many courageous survivors. Why did it have to be poor Sally who was in the diminishing nohope group?

When Lizzie arrived at Gwen’s house, Gwen, just back from her cruise, took one look at her sister’s face and said she’d put the kettle on.

“Are you all right, love?” asked Gwen gently.

“No,” said Lizzie, before she began to cry. No matter which way she told the story, it still hurt. Little Jack and Daniel could lose their mother, Steve would lose his beloved Sally, and there was nothing Lizzie could do to help.

Gwen was a good listener. She said nothing while Lizzie talked, but made sure the tea was strong.

“I feel so helpless,” Lizzie said finally, when she was all cried out. “And it’s all so unfair.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Gwen pointed out, patting Lizzie’s shoulder in comfort. She wasn’t a person given to such gestures, so it made it all the more powerful when she was affectionate.

“Thanks,” sniffed Lizzie.

“You
can
help,” Gwen said. “You can still be Sally’s friend and help her through this. Don’t run away from her. We all run away from death because we don’t know what to say to the person who’s dying.”

Lizzie nodded. Gwen was right. Sally had her family around her but she still needed her friends. Lizzie would be there, no matter what.

Greg was all for fundraising to send Sally to a clinic in America.

“Nobody can beat the U.S. for medicine,” he told Erin. “I’m not knocking the care in Europe, but the U.S. is where it’s at for cancer research. I told Steve I’d get the money for them somehow but he says they’re going to put their trust in the doctors here.” Greg raked his fingers through his spiky hair in agitation. “If it was you, we’d be on that plane so fast …” he said fiercely.

Erin curled into him on the couch, stroking his face for comfort.

“What would I do if it
was
you?” Greg said, closing his eyes and burying his face in Erin’s soft hair. “I couldn’t cope with it.”

“You could,” she said. “You’d have to. And Steve’s coping in his own way. You have to let him and Sally make their own decisions. If the worst comes to the worst and she doesn’t have much time left, then she probably doesn’t want to spend it in another country going through more procedures, all of which might be futile. She’d want to be here with the kids.”

Their fingers entwined over Erin’s belly.

“It’s strange,” she said. “I mean, I know I’m only ten weeks pregnant but it’s terrible to imagine being sick and dying, leaving the baby.”

Greg kissed her, his lips gentle against the tender skin of her temple. “That’s not going to happen, right?”

“I know, I know.” In her head, Erin knew she was overreacting, but in her heart, the fear was still there. Sally had brought the idea of illness and death home. Erin knew people who’d died before, but they were generally much older than she. She’d never known someone like herself face a possibly terminal illness, a young person with everything to live for.

Steve had told Greg that he did his best to be hopeful and positive for Sally’s sake, but every day he feared the news that cancer would be found somewhere else in her body and that the clock would start ticking faster.

“I won’t leave you,” Erin promised the tiny bump in her belly. “Never, not for anything.”

Abby hated hospitals. She remembered the grey room where her mother had lain battling with the pneumonia that eventually killed her before the cigarettes could. Maybe it was different if you were a nurse and the hospital was a place of work where there was bustling activity, an air of community and even fun. But as a visitor, Abby just felt a sense of impending gloom.

The boys had gone home for Easter—Steve’s sister, Amy, had come to look after them—and Sally herself was due home in a few days. Steve had rung last night to say that she would like to see Abby.

“She hasn’t wanted visitors until now,” he said, “but she’s asking for you.”

“Of course I’ll come,” Abby said.

“I … she’s …” Steve wanted to say something. “She’s devastated, so be prepared for that. Mum and I keep telling her she looks great, like she always did, but she doesn’t. How can you look the same when you’ve had that sort of news?”

His warning meant that Abby managed to hide the shock when she saw her friend in the hospital bed. Physically, Sally didn’t look bad—much better than Steve had led Abby to believe. It was the pain in her eyes that made Abby’s heart ache. Sally’s expression had always been so bright, so vital. Now, she looked as if someone or something had extinguished the light in her soul.

“Hello, Sally,” Abby said brightly, leaning down to kiss the dry cheek gently. “I brought some books and magazines to while away the boredom.”

Privately, she didn’t think Sally looked as if she had the energy to hold a book, let alone to concentrate on its contents.

“Thanks for coming,” Sally said.

Abby avoided looking at the paraphernalia of the sickroom: the monitors, the drip attached to her friend’s slender hand. Perching herself on a chair, she arranged her gifts where Sally could reach them.

“How’s Steve? I mean, really how is he?” Sally’s voice was a whispery rasp. “Delia says he’s fine and he’s coping, but I’m so worried about him. I knew you’d tell me the truth. I knew you’d give it to me straight.”

Abby smiled. “You need a few straight-talking friends in life, don’t you?” she said. “You’re the warm, cheering-up sort of friend and I’m the tell-it-like-it-is one.”

Even Sally smiled faintly at this. “Having cancer makes people gild the lily when they talk to you. Not the doctors—they’ve been very honest.”

Abby gulped at the thought of what sort of honest things they must be saying to Sally.

“But Delia, God love her, keeps saying it’s all going to work out fine because she is saying this novena to St. Anthony and it’s never failed. And Amy—she’s come to take care of the boys this week when Delia and Steve are here—listening to her, you’d swear I was in to get my face lifted! She’s so breezy and positive about it all.”

“Denial?” suggested Abby.

“Probably,” agreed Sally. “Either that or she hopes that if she’s cheery enough, then I will be too.” She changed the subject. “How are Tom and Jess?”

“Fine,” said Abby quickly. Sally was the most wonderful person in the world to confide in but now was most definitely not the time. “Steve is all right, Sally. He’s keeping going, if you know what I mean. The first day he told me about you, well, he was devastated.” She remembered that awful day too well: Steve almost incapable of speaking about the notion of life without Sally. “But he is coping for the boys’ sake. Whenever I speak to him, he seems to be managing. And Jack and Daniel are great too.”

Sally’s eyes misted over. “The doctors didn’t want the boys in here because of the risk of infection, but I insisted. They’re my children, I can’t keep going without them. I should be at home with them, not stuck here.”

Abby could see the tears pooling in the corners of Sally’s eyes and her heart ached for her friend’s pain.

“I’m going to start the chemotherapy soon,” Sally said, changing the subject. “Steve’s all fired up that this will cure me. He says we’ve got to believe it can, we’ve got to have hope.” Sally’s little laugh turned into a sob. “Oh, Abby, I’m so scared.”

Abby clung to Sally’s hand to comfort her, willing herself not to cry.

“I have to be brave for Steve’s sake because it’s such a huge burden for him to carry, but I want to scream and cry and never stop. It’s so unfair.”

Sally closed her eyes in anguish. She was too weak with grief to cry properly, Abby realised.

“If I don’t get better, will you and Tom look after him for me afterwards? Please?” Now she was wild-eyed with desperation. “He won’t be able to cope without me. I know he’s strong but we’re a team. He needs me.”

“Don’t talk like that, Sally,” begged Abby. “You’re going to get better, you’ve got to believe that.”

“You mean ‘think positive,’ ” Sally croaked. “That’s Delia and Amy’s motto. I’ve been thinking positively all my life and this still happened. You can think as positively as you want and you still die, Abby. I always thought that because it had happened to my mum it would never happen to me. Lightning doesn’t strike twice and all that.”

“There’s still hope, isn’t there?”

“Of course there’s hope,” Sally said fiercely. “I’m going to fight for Steve and Jack and Daniel, you know I am, Abby. But fighting doesn’t mean you’re blind to the truth. I have to be ready for whatever happens. I won’t be a victim, I won’t hide. The cancer is like this evil presence inside me and it wants to be in control. I can’t stop that, but I can change how I deal with it. It’s taking over my body but it won’t take over my mind.”

There was no noise in the room. Outside, Abby could hear the drone of the floorpolisher and the intermittent ringing of the ward phones.

“I thought that if you appreciated what you had, it wouldn’t be taken away,” Sally said. “I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

“No,” replied Abby. “You’ve always shown the people in your life that you love them. Steve knows that you adore him and the children, you never wasted a day of your life not telling them. Most people can’t say that.”

“But I want more time to tell them,” Sally whispered.

There was nothing Abby could say to that, so she gently put her arms round Sally in the bed, holding her as if she was thistledown.

Tom was still sleeping in the spare room and the atmosphere between husband and wife was colder than the Arctic Circle. Abby wasn’t sure what she’d thought happened when a marriage imploded, but she’d expected some sort of actual row. She could deal with a big showdown because she was desperate to apologise, to crave forgiveness on her knees if required, to do anything to put her marriage back together. But he wasn’t giving her the opportunity.

Tom, thinner, gaunter, was playing according to his rules and that included ignoring Abby. Jack and Daniel had stayed with them for three days, and while the boys were there, the Bartons had looked like a normal family—on the surface, at least.

Having small children around was a blessing because they gave Tom, Abby and Jess a focus. There were always games to be played, stories to be read or clothes to be changed, offering constant distraction. When Jack and Daniel had gone to bed, Jess retreated to her room to work. There was no time for her to notice what was happening between her parents. Or at least, so Abby hoped.