Recipes for Melissa (26 page)

It was almost as if Sam now felt that the sharing of the journal had solved any problems there had been between them.

And yet here was the paradox. If anything it was now making things worse.

Melissa felt her pulse in her ear every single time she thought about it.

She could not change her mind now and marry Sam, even if she wanted to. Because how, on earth, could she have a baby. If she took the test, it would come back positive and if she had a baby – one day in the future – there was the strong possibility the poor child would have to go through exactly what she had been through.

And no way could she do that to Sam. Or the child. This was no longer about some irrational fear of dying young. This was about science. Genes. Facts. It had been different for her mother because she didn’t know any of this when she got married and had Melissa. But knowing of the risk changed everything for Melissa. Gave her a responsibility she didn’t actually want.

Melissa ran her fingers around the stuck pages two thirds into the journal – realising why she had not wanted to read them earlier. She was sure now that it contained, not just the story of her parents’ ‘blip’ but the results of her mother’s test also. That Eleanor had danced around it all to prepare her as gently as was possible… for the worst.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember it. A rabbit biscuit cutter. Standing outside that bathroom in Cornwall. All impatience.

And then Melissa took a very deep breath and opened the book.

33

ELEANOR – 1994

Eleanor had a clear idea in her head of how the final bit would map out.

And then, shortly after handing over the book to the lawyer, she woke up on the floor. How long she had been out cold she had no idea. Eleanor was not wearing her watch and assumed a few minutes, but by the time she had dragged herself across the carpet to a position where she could see the clock, she was shocked to see that more than twenty had passed. She was also shocked at the colour of her skin. Yellow.

Max was at the university – a drive of forty-five minutes. She had pressed him to go, day after day, unable to bear his worrying and determined to keep things as normal as possible for as long as possible for Melissa. The district nurse was now checking on her twice daily and Eleanor felt this was safety net enough. But she had miscalculated.

The pain in her lower stomach was almost unbearable. She shuffled a couple more feet towards the phone and dialled first for an ambulance and then to speak to Dr Palmer. He was in his office and the secretary put her through straight away.

‘It’s time,’ was all she said. There was a pause and then reassurance that he would liaise with ambulance control and speak to the ward – set everything in play. A side room. Was Max with her? When did she dial 999? Was she sure she would not prefer the hospice?

Eleanor had batted away all hospice support on the grounds that Melissa would very quickly work out what was going on. Writing the book meant she was now no longer certain at all that she had got this right. She told Dr Palmer that she didn’t know what she thought any more about the hospice and he said that he would make sure their hospital nurse made contact on the ward. To at least discuss it.

‘Is there someone with you, Eleanor? Have you seen the district nurse this morning? You’re not on your own?’

‘I’m fine. All in hand.’

By the time the ambulance arrived, Eleanor had managed to sit herself on the chair in the hall – a small bag at her feet. Just the basics. With every item, imagining Max slowly unpacking them. Pyjamas; washbag; books.

She had decided to get the nurse to phone Max once she was settled onto a ward. It was two o’clock. This sudden and complete weakness had overwhelmed her. She had honestly expected some more time to adjust and to make plans. So – what now? She would get Max to pick Melissa up from school and ring his mother to take over. Yes. Eleanor imagined that she could make it a bit tidier. Less stressful for everyone. She was feeling guilty. For not listening to Max who in recent days had wanted to stay home with her. Now she was thinking that by the time he caught up with what was happening, she would at least be settled. Comfortable. Calm.

Tidier.

She also wanted to speak to Dr Palmer and the lawyers about what to do about the test results. All before Max arrived.

__________________

‘You can’t go back in there, professor.’

‘I bloody can. One of my staff is up there. A seminar. Half a dozen students.’

‘We need to leave it to the fire brigade now.’

Max tried to barge past the caretaker but he was having none of it.

‘I can’t let you do that, professor.’

Max took a swing but missed.

‘Jesus Christ. Professor Dance!’ the caretaker was in shock. But he was a muscular man and in less than a minute had Max in a tight hold – one arm twisted up his back.

‘Now. I realise you’re upset. And I’m very sorry about this. But we need to calm down. And leave this to the professionals. Yes?’

Max struggled without success.

‘I’m the head of the department. I’m responsible.’

‘Yes. I know that. But I’m in charge on this one. Now. Can I let go of you? Are you going to calm down and let me walk you to the exit? Yes?’

__________________

‘She’s in a coma.’

‘What on earth do you mean – she’s in a coma. I need to speak to her. She was perfectly fine this morning. Doing OK. What do you mean she’s in a coma?’

‘Things deteriorated very, very quickly, Max. It’s her liver. And her lungs. There’s a clot. Look. She was blacking out. We had to do something for the pain.’

‘But she will wake up?’

Dr Palmer had met Max on the corridor and walked swiftly alongside him to Eleanor’s side room. It was five o’clock. His mother now with Melissa.

Her skin was all the wrong colour – but Dr Palmer explained it was the lungs they were more concerned about. He was wittering about the rarity of Eleanor’s case. How the tumour spread and organ system response was so very difficult to predict. Every case was—

Max wanted him to shut the fuck up.

‘She was fine this morning.’ He was thinking now that he should have stayed home. Never mind what Eleanor wanted…

‘The important thing now is that we keep her comfortable.’

‘I had no idea she had lost this much weight. She wouldn’t let me see her,’ Max was standing by the bed as Dr Palmer checked the display from the machines. ‘This is my fault, isn’t it? I should have insisted. Brought her in sooner. She wouldn’t even let me help her with her bath. I tried. Believe me, I—’

Dr Palmer put his hand on Max’s upper arm. ‘None of this is your fault, Max. It was important to let Eleanor do this her way.’

Max put his hand up to his mouth, feeling giddy suddenly. Dr Palmer helped him to sit on the chair alongside the bed.

‘Pain. You said she was in pain?’

‘We are giving her everything, Max. It’s OK. She wasn’t uncomfortable for long.’

‘So she was distressed?’

Dr Palmer looked across at the nurse.

‘We did our best. She wanted to stay awake to speak to you. But it got too much for her.’

‘Was she distressed?’

‘She wanted to talk to you about something. It was upsetting her. But she’s calm now. She wasn’t distressed for long, I promise you.’

‘So she will wake up?’

Max watched Eleanor’s chest rising and falling – this terrible pause with every third breath.

‘I will get to speak to her again? She will wake up?’

___________________

The fire brigade used an extension ladder to reach the upper seminar rooms. There were five terrible minutes of panic when they could all see the students and Anna up at the window – the smoke in the room evident and the faces terribly afraid. And then the paradox of calm and everyone pretending it had been no big deal.

The students watching from the lawns filmed it on their mobiles and then clapped. The students who were moved to safety via the little platform changed demeanour the moment they hit the safety of the ground. It had been a lark. A triumph for Facebook.

Max watched Anna insist on being the last to be accompanied on the little platform down to safety.

‘It was the deep fat fryer,’ he heard someone whisper alongside him. ‘Hadn’t been cleaned. Health and safety are gonna have a field day.’

Anna watched him from the platform as it was manoeuvred slowly down to the ground, her hand cupped over her cold sores as Max had to sit down on the grass.

34

MAX - 1994

Max had always known what the biggest test of his love for Eleanor would be. Not losing her. That felt exactly as he had feared – like ripping flesh from his bones. Just much faster than anyone expected. Four hours in the hospital. A clot on the lung.

You have to wake up, Eleanor. I’m not ready.

But no. Even that horror was not as bad as it could get.

With Eleanor’s father on the way from France and Max’s mother holding the fort at home, only now came the true test.

Driving home to Melissa.

This terrible, terrible journey during which Max had to muster every ounce of his physical strength to overcome an unexpected fury towards the woman he so loved for leaving him with this task.

OK, so they had had their weeks of ‘normal’. But Max was sure Melissa knew, deep down, that something very big was up. And to the very end he had tried to get Eleanor to change her mind. To prepare Melissa. To let her see the counsellor. To buy some special book and do the memory box. To say a proper goodbye.

But – no. Eleanor would not budge.
I can’t do it. Please don’t make me do it, Max
.

For those final few days during which Eleanor was so obviously deteriorating, Melissa thought it was appendicitis.

‘Is it her appendix, Daddy? Tabatha’s mummy had her appendix out last summer. But she didn’t get a very big scar. Tiny. She showed us,’ she had said just that morning when he left her at school. ‘If Mummy has to have her appendix out, will she show me her scar?’

His own mother had also disapproved of the secrecy. And when he turned up now at the door – straight from the hospital, he could hardly bear to see her in her pinny and her slippers – slumping down into the seat by the telephone in the hallway.

She had wanted to come upstairs to Melissa. To help him do it.

But Max shook his head. He didn’t want anyone else in the room.

In her bedroom Melissa was plaiting Elizabeth’s hair – a tatty rag doll. A gift from his father when she was three.

‘Is Mummy home with you?’

Max sat on Melissa’s bed.

‘No. Listen, honey. Daddy has some very, very sad news, darling.’

‘Was it her appendix?’

‘No.’

Melissa’s body tightened and she began to undo one of the doll’s plaits. To needlessly repeat the task. Plaiting the left side of the hair all over again. Pulling hard at the strands of nylon.

She said nothing.

‘Sometimes things happen, my darling, which are very difficult to understand. And also to explain Melissa.’

‘Is Mummy having another baby?’

‘No. Mummy isn’t having another baby.’

‘I don’t mind. I won’t be jealous. I promise.’

Max moved closer to his daughter and put his arm around her shoulder, fighting the surge of panic. The adrenalin through his body.

‘The thing is Melissa. God has decided that Mummy needs to be in heaven with him.’

And now Melissa was completely still. As if anaesthetised. Rigid. Saying nothing.

‘Mummy has gone to heaven, darling.’

And then Melissa moved her head very strangely. A sort of twitch of her chin. She did it over and over – like a tic which Max had never seen before.

‘I think I’m going to change Elizabeth’s outfit now.’

‘You can do that later, darling. I need you to listen to me. And to understand what I’m telling you. It’s very, very sad – my darling. Awful. And it hurts Daddy very much too. Right in my heart. But we need to be very brave. I’m so sorry, darling. Mummy loved you more than anything in the whole world. But Mummy has died in the hospital and gone to heaven today. And it means we can’t see her any more.’

And then, after a few more seconds of complete stillness, it came.

The tsunami. A wall of it. Fists and hair and this terrible, terrible noise.

Whether Melissa had stood first or begun shouting first he would later not remember. All he remembered was the pounding against his own body. The fists and the kicks and the wailing sound.

On and on and on.

‘You are a fat, stinking liar.’ Kicking and screaming. And then throwing things. The doll. Her brush. Her toys. ‘You get out of my room.’ Throwing books and bags. And kicking at the doll’s house in the corner. Smash. Smash. And then physically trying to push him out of the room. ‘You get out of my room. I hate you,’ kicking really hard. ‘I am going to call Granny and we are going to get Mummy. Right this minute. Get out.’

Max tried to hold his daughter’s arms, to stop the thrashing but was afraid of hurting her.

‘I know, darling. I know. And I’m so very sorry, my darling.’

‘She is not in heaven.’

‘Melissa. Look at me, darling…’

‘She’s not.’

‘Melissa, please.’

‘We’re in the middle of a story. Look,’ she grabbed a book from beside her bed and opened it to show him the place – the bookmark – her eyes wide and pleading for this unfinished business to count.

She looked into his face for an age, tears now streaming down her own and then her arms were suddenly limp, the book falling to the ground. From the extremity of the violence to the horror of complete collapse. On the floor. As if all the muscles had suddenly stopped working.

Max in panic called out for his mother as he checked her breathing. Oh dear God, no. Leant his ear down to hear it. Her chest rising and falling.
Good. Good. That’s it, Melissa
.
Breathe.

And now Max scooped her into his arms to hold her tight as she came to and his mother appeared in the doorway – lifting Melissa’s head gently into the crook of his arm like he did when she was really small.