Page 59 of You Were Always the One

‘How long were you standing outside?’ he says shortly.

‘I wasn’t.’ I put the mug on the bedside table. ‘Obviously, I heard you talking. But I didn’t hear what you were saying, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

I stand there, slightly shocked. His apology actually sounds as though he means it. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Apart from having a fucking headache and an appointment I’m dreading, yes, thank you. Everything’s just fine.’

Going over to the chest of drawers, I pick up the packet of paracetamol. ‘When did you last take these?’

‘Ages ago. I suppose I should have some,’ he says ungraciously.

I pass them to him. ‘Would you like me to come to the hospital with you tomorrow?’

For a moment, he doesn’t speak. ‘If you must,’ he mutters.

I know he’s suffering. But does he have any idea how hard this is for me, too? ‘If you would like to me to take the time to drive you and come with you, I’m happy to. Otherwise, I’ve plenty of other things to do.’

‘If you have time.’ He doesn’t look at me. Can’t even force a ‘thank you’ out.

Neither of my children mention Miles’s appointment tomorrow. I choose not to bring the subject up. Keep the mood light. It’s what we do as mothers, isn’t it? Shield them from what might otherwise frighten them.

It isn’t until that evening after Grace has gone to bed that Max comes to find me.

‘Isn’t Dad seeing his consultant soon?’ he says.

I take in his anxious look. ‘Tomorrow,’ I say gently.

He looks startled. ‘When?’

‘In the morning,’ I say. ‘I’m going with him.’

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. ‘Could I come?’

‘Oh, Max.’ My heart goes out to my son. ‘Thank you. But it was hard enough to get your father to agree to me going with him. I think it’s probably best you go to school.’ He’s trying to do the right thing but I watch relief briefly flicker across his face; know that he’s scared, too. ‘I’ll tell you everything the consultant says when you get home.’

He wanders upstairs and I hear his bedroom door open and close, then quiet strains of music, the volume, or lack of it, for his father’s benefit. Sitting down, I’m taut, stretched in every sense, under the shadow of Miles’s illness that’s affecting all of us.

The following morning, we breakfast as a family; it’s almost like we used to be. Except I’m kidding myself because in recent years, Miles hasn’t had breakfast with us, nor was he civil to me. In front of our children, he even manages to hide his fear; only when they go to catch the bus does the mask slip.

‘We should probably go soon,’ he mutters.

Neither of us speaks as I drive us to the hospital. Instead, both of us are alone with our thoughts about what the next couple of hours will bring. That with a few words, everything could change.

I remember little of our drive home. Once we’re back, I make us coffee. Since leaving the hospital, Miles has been silent, assimilating what we now know to be fact. The diagnosis, as his consultant was expecting, is that Miles’s tumour is malignant and most probably terminal. The treatment was outlined, soon to be set in motion: radiotherapy and chemo. Both of us are aware there is no easy way through this.

‘We need to tell the children,’ I say quietly, handing him a cup of coffee.

‘Must we?’ He frowns.

‘Of course we do. We can’t hide something like this from them.’ I can’t believe he doesn’t see that. ‘Max has already been reading far too much on the internet. They know you’re seeing your consultant today. It’s better for them if we give them facts.’

‘If you say so.’ Draining his cup, he gets up. ‘I’m going to lie down for a bit.’

Miles goes upstairs. Hearing his footsteps disappear along the landing, then the door of the spare room close, I pick up my phone and call Rita. When she doesn’t answer, I leave a voicemail.

‘Hi! Can you call me? Maybe this evening – the kids are home soon.’