Recipes for Melissa (13 page)

Eleanor knew deep down that it was pure craziness not to tell Max about the lump and not to see the doctor about the lump. It wasn’t a bright thing to do and she was a bright woman. But everything in her life had been so charmed until that point that she had this terrible feeling, deep inside, that all roads had been leading to this place and she needed somehow to postpone
knowing
. She did some research and tried for a time to reason that it was a fibroadenoma – both benign and quite common in women in their twenties and thirties. That could fit. But the lump, when she checked it more closely in the privacy of the bathroom seemed to go quite deep into her chest – right under the armpit. Also there was some discolouration of the breast which had been there for quite some time. A rash that she had just got used to and assumed was some kind of allergy or eczema. There was also the curious fact that she had been losing weight without trying.

Much later Eleanor would try to answer Max’s heartache and exasperation at why she had delayed investigating all these symptoms – even for a week, let alone the months she actually delayed – but she just couldn’t find the words or the rationale to explain that she didn’t actually want to know.

Chanting in the car on the way to get that first result about the statistics and how unlikely it was to be anything serious, she was in her head writing an entirely different script – knowing already how this was going to turn out. It was more than pessimism. She actually felt that she knew. Not some psychic experience but rather a physical awareness which probably had more to do with the cancer which had already spread inside her than she realised. She just didn’t want it confirmed.

And so, for Max, she put on an air of faux optimism through all the wretched tests, until they sat there and the doctor’s face told them before he had even opened his mouth.

It was stage four. It was already in her liver and her lungs. It was the reason she had been losing weight and felt so tired. They were terribly, terribly sorry but her circumstance was very rare. The treatment could not be curative though there was much they could do in terms of quality of life.

Max sat there making notes – his face white as he scrawled and scrawled, pressing so hard into the page that the paper tore. Eleanor did not listen to another word.

In her mind she had already journeyed back to the front of that church. She was back in that other ward when the midwife said it was a girl. She was lying on the floor, setting up skittles. She was playing cricket on the beach. And she was collecting together all the ingredients for Easter biscuits.

And now, writing the journal for Melissa she would get these moments of extreme panic when the details would begin to jumble and she would worry about how much she should share with her daughter. All of it? Part of it?

During one writing session, she described over three full pages how she felt on her wedding day. The scent of the orange blossom which drifted into the church every time someone opened a door. Also – the day that Melissa was born. The delicious smell of the newborn that she just couldn’t find the words to describe. And the story of the orange zest and the cupcakes. How they had first come to use the zest. Would Melissa remember this? Should she have written it down for her? The story. And then, thinking of orange, she suddenly got herself in the most terrible tizz – spending two full hours trying to find a particular picture of her mother visiting her in hospital on the day that Melissa arrived.

She remembered the picture as her mother was wearing a bright orange jumper which seemed to reflect on all their faces, distorting the skin tones when the pictures were developed. ‘We look like oompa loompas, Mother.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. The baby looks beautiful. Completely beautiful.’

‘For an oompa loompa baby. Alongside your jumper.’

But Eleanor could not find the picture. She hunted high and low but it was nowhere to be found. She had mentioned it in the journal – the story of the orange jumper reflections – and so she couldn’t decide what to do. To rip out the page if she did not find the picture?

All the while Max distressed… to see her distress.

‘I don’t understand why you need the picture today, Eleanor? We can find it another time? It’s probably in a frame somewhere. Please don’t be like this. I hate to see you like this.’

17

MELISSA – 2011

‘Look – I know I said that I was fine. That we could close the whole marriage thing down but I find that I just can’t, Melissa.’ Sam had finally agreed to a trip. They were now on the way back from a disastrous visit to the Tomb of the Kings near Paphos.

Melissa, caffeine-deprived and distracted by confusion over the roller coaster of her mother’s words had insisted they set off early. A mistake. Both overtired. Plus two days by the pool seemed to have stirred Sam into an even worse mood, the sore leg now itching unbearably in the heat.

Melissa had banked on the visit itself lifting both of them. On the website the Tombs looked impressive – a World Heritage site. She had imagined an air-conditioned visitor centre where Sam could at least rest his leg if the tour proved too much. But no. There was no centre and no coffee, merely a scorching expanse of baked earth to be explored – with mosquitoes holed up in the tombs.

Also there were no kings.

‘Why do they call it the Tomb of the Kings… if there are no kings
?’ Sam, hobbling across the dusty pathways in searing heat, sounded at the end of his rope. On any other day and in any other circumstance, it was a visit he would have loved – devouring every word in the guidebook.

But today, after less than an hour, they threw in the towel. A quick lunch at a rather seedy cafe nearby and now heading home.

‘It’s doing my head in, Mel. I mean – you seem so distant suddenly. Sleeping on the sofa bed. Always looking for an excuse to sneak off. Is this really what it’s going to be like now? You saying that we are OK but behaving as if you don’t want to be in the same room as me. All because I asked you to marry me.’

‘That isn’t how it is, Sam. Look. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Say anything, Melissa. Anything at all. Just explain it to me. What you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. Why you are not only so very unsure about marrying me but have suddenly withdrawn completely—’

‘Look. It’s like I said in the restaurant. I just don’t see what a piece of paper has to do with anything. I thought we had agreed to just leave it. See how things go. You’ve just had an accident, Sam. I don’t think this is the time—’

‘But it’s not just a piece of paper, is it? It’s about saying that you really want to be with someone.’

‘I do want to be with you, Sam. You know that. I’ve told you that.’

‘But not to marry me? Or even, it seems, to bloody talk to me.’

Melissa could feel her heart rate increasing. She changed down a gear but the engine revved noisily and so she moved back again into fifth. Sam looked away – out of the passenger window.

They drove on then in silence for a time and Melissa was struggling against a sick churning in her stomach, Sam now refusing to even look at her. She turned up the air conditioning.

For a moment she played the cliff-edge game. The black game she played as a kid. Imagine that you actually jump. Too late. Done it. One split second decision and no going back. She would never actually do it. Jump. Hurt herself. But it scared her that you could even have black thoughts and fears. That life, even hypothetically, could turn on split second decisions.
Tell him
. Say it. Do things and say things that could not be undone. It was the same panic when that woman way back in primary school pressed and pressed and bloody pressed…

‘Look. You know I find it difficult to talk about stuff, Sam.’

‘Understatement of the year.’ It was rare for him to be this harsh. She winced, breathing then through her nose, which made an unpleasant noise. She felt in her pocket for a tissue. Normally when she was struggling with anything like this, he would help. Be kind. But he was still looking pointedly away and she could see from the profile that his eyes were heavy. Like in the restaurant when he disappeared for an age to the bathroom and came back with his eyes looking just like this.

‘Look. I know I’m hard work sometimes. But it isn’t what you think, Sam.’

‘So what is it, Melissa?’

She used the tissue, awkwardly blowing her nose one-handed. Still he would not look.

‘You know what I used to think, Melissa? I used to think you are actually afraid to be in love. Afraid to let yourself be happy. I used to think all I needed to do was be patient. That what happened when you were a kid was what it was about. And that I just needed to hang in there. But now I’m thinking – that maybe we’re just stuck treading water here.’

She didn’t know what to say.

‘So do you want to split up, Melissa? For me to move out when we get back?’

‘Of course not.’ She was shocked that he could even think this…

‘Why say of course not as if it’s obvious. When you don’t appear to want to be in the same room any more.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘OK. So how about I tell you what’s true. What’s true is that I watched you from the balcony this morning, taking your early swim before we left. We hadn’t even said good morning, Melissa. And all I was thinking is how the hell do I make this woman happy. Because you sure don’t look happy to me. You swam – what fifteen lengths, at some ridiculous hour – as if you were in some kind of rage. Then you sat by the edge of the pool with the sun right in your eyes as if you were on another planet. Not here at all. And that’s how it feels right now. As if you’re not even with me, Melissa.’

‘My mother left me a book, Sam. A journal.’ Edge of the cliff. Jump.
Say it, Melissa
. Tears pricking the back of her eyes. ‘I got it when I went to that lawyer’s office.’ Knuckles white as she squeezed the steering wheel.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘When I went to see that solicitor and I said it was a mistake. A will hunter? That was a lie. It wasn’t a mistake. The lawyer had a book for me. Left for me by my mother. I should have told you.’

And now Sam was frozen – his mouth gaping.

‘It’s a journal of recipes and letters and photographs which she put together when she was…’ A long, deep breath. ‘That she put together for me when she was very ill. For when I was grown-up.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Finally looking at her.

‘I can see now that I should have told you. But the shock threw me. I’m sorry, Sam.’

‘And so this happened when? Before the restaurant?’

‘No. It happened the morning after. I’m not saying it’s why I’m unsure about getting married. I still can’t explain that. And I’m not trying to say it’s any kind of excuse. I’m just saying it’s why I’m all over the place. And all this, seeking time by myself. It’s not because I don’t want to be with you. I just wanted to read a bit more in private. Get my head round it before telling you and working out how I’m going to tell my father.’

‘You seriously saying you haven’t read it all yet?’

‘No. Not yet. I’m actually finding it very…’ What word would do? She tried to find one, narrowing her eyes, but couldn’t.

‘And your father doesn’t know about it?’

‘No.’

‘Jesus Christ. We need to pull in, Melissa.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You need to stop driving,’ at last he had turned to look at her.

‘This is really huge, Melissa. There. That cafe. Stop there…’

Wiping at her face now. Silent tears. Relief and fear and guilt churned into one big wave as she checked the mirror.

This is huge…

Indicating to pull into the layby alongside the cafe now, so very relieved that he was looking at her again. And had said it.

The footbrake now – which she hit too hard. Then the handbrake. Picturing a Kenwood Chef mixer of white and pale blue – its surface gleaming from a damp cloth. Looking down at a single drip onto the pale linen of her trousers and thinking – that; yes.

This was really huge.

Boeuf Bourguignon

3lb quality braising steak (sounds too much – but not for hungry folk)

One large onion or handful of shallots

Pack of cubed pancetta

Two fat garlic cloves

Pack of good mushrooms – sliced

Good few sprigs of thyme – snipped with scissors

Bottle of good red wine (don’t skimp!)

Seasoning + 3 tablespoons of flour + tiny bit sugar

Small amount of good beef stock, if needed

Chop the braising steak into large chunks (they shrink dramatically in the cooking) and brown in hot olive oil in a good quality casserole dish – transferring to a plate in batches. Then fry the chopped onion (or shallots) in more oil along with the pancetta and finally add the chopped garlic. Then return the beef to the dish. Sprinkle over the flour and mix everything with a wooden spoon. Don’t panic at the goo at this stage. Slowly add the red wine, mixing carefully as the sauce thickens over low heat. Put in the whole bottle and add a touch more rich beef stock to cover the meat if needed. Season well, add the chopped thyme, mushrooms and half a teaspoon of sugar to balance the wine. Bring up to simmer, then transfer to oven for THREE HOURS at around 160°C. Again – this is longer than most recipes say, but it works for me. Your casserole MUST have a tight lid. If not – put some waxed paper over the top of the casserole contents to improve the seal. You don’t want all the gorgeous sauce to evaporate away.