The Mother’s Lies. Joanne Sefton

cells meant no part of our body was ever more than seven years old – or perhaps it was ten? What, then, made these the same feet that had run pell-mell on terraced streets in gaping shoes? What made these the same lips that joined, shaking, with Neil’s on their wedding day? What made these the hands that, trembling with fear, had cradled newborn Helen?

      It was the pattern, the mould, that was important. Just as each plank of the ship was measured, cut and sanded to fit in its position, so each cell died and another grew in its place, arranged just as before, cheek by jowl with its comrades, directed by God or DNA or both to maintain the thinness of her bottom lip, the flecks of gold in her brown eyes and the bluntness of her stubby fingers. But not any more.

      ‘Cancer’ is our word for what happens when the mould breaks.

      Barbara lathered her breasts, lifting each one tenderly and committing the weight and tone and pucker of it to memory. Her pattern read 34C, the cells dutifully multiplying and expanding to sprout at thirteen and to swell during pregnancy, just as mandated in their instructions.

      Now, though, they’d gone rogue. She had Militant Mammaries. Jihadi Jugs. The pattern had been ripped up, and right now there were thousands (millions?) of manically reproducing cells bulging into colonies of chaos, thrusting aside the law-abiding, structured tissue and making manifest the sins of the flesh.

      I’m still me. She let the middle finger of her left hand creep over the Lump. Except for the bits that aren’t. She pictured the glinting edge of a scalpel. Incision. Excision. Fifteen hundred years of medicine and it still came down to this: cut the damn thing out.

      When she wasn’t thinking of the cancer, she was thinking of the note. Barbara was sure that Helen’s sharp eyes had picked up on it. She’d find the others in the safe soon enough – if she hadn’t already. That girl gets her sharpness from her mother, Barbara thought proudly, even if her daughter couldn’t really be called a girl any more. There was a distance in Helen’s eyes, an uneasiness in her smile, that told Barbara she had read the note, and would be asking awkward questions soon enough. Helen’s distracted look could just be worry about the illness, especially coming on top of the business with Darren, but Barbara didn’t think so. She had a sense about these things.

      Of course, the fact the notes were there didn’t mean anything would come of them. Anonymous vitriol was easy enough – just look at the internet these days. This was the curtain call for a closing act that Barbara had waited all her adult life for, but she still didn’t know if she was ready to take to the stage.

      I’m still me. She muttered it aloud this time, letting the bitter soap taste into her mouth.

       Still me; but so, so tired.

      That was how she knew the cancer was for real, not the blurry shots from the mammogram or Eklund’s careful explanations, but the numbing, bone-aching, deadening tiredness that had her in its embrace, sucking her down like quicksand. She had prepared for this finale well enough. If it was ever going to play out, the curtain was going to have to come up pretty damn quickly.

       Helen

      They agreed that Neil would take Barbara into hospital by himself when she was to be admitted for the operation. That way, Helen could stay at the house with the kids and not have to worry about bothering Chris and Adam again. Chris had frowned when Helen told her, saying: ‘I thought you’d want to be with your mum,’ but the look in her mother-in-law’s eyes told Helen there was more to it than that. She didn’t want to give Chris the chance to start pleading Darren’s case about seeing the children.

      It was afterwards that Barbara would need the support, anyway, once the doctors were ready to say exactly what it was that they had found in there. And later on, when she came home, and would need care that Neil might struggle to provide. Helen had already made a couple of discreet calls to social services, just to check what would be available for them, but Neil had started talking darkly about the indignity of having strangers poking around when you’re at your lowest ebb, and Helen knew she wouldn’t be able to bring herself to walk away.

      So, instead of following up with the council, she had called her boss. It came down to an ultimatum – give me a sabbatical or I’ll walk. The managers weren’t happy, but there wasn’t much they could say. Helen told herself that keeping up the mortgage payments was the least she could expect from shit-rat Darren and prayed to God that her bravado wouldn’t come unstuck.

      Now, the day had come and she was helping Barbara to pack. The master bedroom had barely changed in twenty years and Helen still felt odd going in there. They had never been one of those families who all piled into the double bed on a Sunday morning – like she and Darren used to do with the kids. Whilst she hadn’t exactly been forbidden from going into her parents’ bedroom, it certainly wasn’t encouraged, and it brought back stiff memories of having her hair done on school-photo day or before a birthday party.

      ‘Thank you again for the nightie you got, Helen,’ said Barbara, rather formally. ‘It is lovely.’

      ‘Let me get it out. Did you put it in the drawer here?’

      Helen opened the drawer as she spoke, but had got confused. Barbara kept her nightwear in the fourth one down, and she’d opened the third, full of tights.

      ‘Sorry!’

      ‘Next one down, Helen, perhaps I should just …’

      A couple of minutes later, once Helen had managed to pick up the wrong toilet bag and then folded Barbara’s spare jumper incorrectly, Barbara insisted on swapping places.

      ‘I’m not an invalid, not yet at any rate.’

      ‘I know … I just want to help.’

      ‘Don’t worry, love, it’s nice just to have you here.’

      Helen couldn’t help but notice that her mother was avoiding her eyes as she said it.

      She tried desperately to think of some way to start a real conversation. The notes on their sickly green paper swam in her mind’s eye. Her thoughts flicked back to a time, aged twelve or so, when she’d sat in this same chair and Barbara had outlined the facts of life in her brisk, hearty journalist’s manner. Neil had practically had to push Helen in through the door to have the conversation, and, looking back, she reckoned he’d probably had to do the same for Barbara. Beyond that she struggled to remember any meaningful conversation the two of them had had alone.

      ‘Have you got the list the nurse gave you?’ she asked, stalling for time.

      Barbara just waved a hand towards a scrap of paper on the bedside table and carried on folding the nightie.

      ‘What books are you taking?’

      ‘I picked a couple up at the library.’ She nodded towards a couple of paperbacks on the bed. Helen nearly picked one up to ask about it, but decided she had to do better than that.

      ‘Mum? Are you scared?’

      Barbara didn’t answer, just carried on arranging the same few bits of clothing in her bag. For a moment, Helen wondered if she’d not really said it out loud, but she noticed Barbara’s hands were trembling. Eventually, she sat down heavily on the bed and looked Helen in the eye for the first time since they’d come into the bedroom.

      ‘What sort of question is that?’

      Her gaze was hard, almost contemptuous.

      ‘I didn’t mean to—’

      ‘Yes, I’m scared.’ Her voice was flat.

      ‘I want you to know you can talk to me, Mum, if it helps – that’s all.’

      ‘Talking doesn’t help, Helen. I’m afraid that’s one thing that your dad and I disagree on.’ Her smile looked thin and forced. ‘If you’re trying to tell me you care, don’t worry – I know that. I know that I’ve not always made it easy for you and I know that you care anyway. You’ve got that much of Neil in you and we can both be grateful for that.’