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“Do any of us remember anything right?” His arms tightened around her. “It’s all just a matter of perception, isn’t it? I remember your dad being quiet, but proud of you. Whenever you got your report card, he’d mention all the A stars.”
“I’d forgotten that,” she whispered shakily.
“And I remember your mum being quiet, too. Sometimes, yes, she seemed unhappy, especially later on. I came into the kitchen once, to ask if you and Harriet could play out, and she was at the table, her head in her hands.”
“Yes,” Rachel whispered. “I have memories like that, too.”
“And I don’t remember being cool,” he added, a lilt of humour in his voice. “Much as I’d like to say I was. I remember sticking around with the rugby lads even though a lot of them were right mugginses because I was too scared to go it alone…or talk to you, even though that was what I wanted, most of all.”
She tilted her head up to face him, blinking the tears from her eyes. “You can talk to me now.”
“It was always you, you know that, Rachel?” Ben said quietly. A thrill went through her, half wonder, half terror. “Always. I didn’t turn around that night in the barn—when you told me about uni—because I knew you’d see how much I wanted you to stay, and I also knew how much you wanted to go. I’d say I was being noble, but I think it was more about being proud. I didn’t want to ask you to stay and have you leave, anyway.” His hands came up to frame her face. “But maybe,” he whispered as he kissed her, “I should have.”
Rachel’s eyes fluttered closed as she surrendered to the sweetness of the kiss. Yes, maybe he should have, she thought, but she was here now, and it was wonderful.
Chapter Twenty
“It’s a glioblastoma.”
The neurology consultant, Mr Miller, gave them a straight but sympathetic look. “That is, a brain tumour that often starts at the base of the brain or on the spinal cord. It can happen at any age, but it tends to occur more often in older adults, especially men.” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “As far as brain tumours go, I have to say, it’s not a good one to have.”
Was any brain tumour a good one to have? Rachel wondered rather wildly. There were no real surprises here, and yet she felt utterly winded. Her father, sat between her and Harriet, stared stonily at the consultant and said nothing.
“Is there…” Harriet cleared her throat. “Is there any treatment?”
“Well.” Mr Miller paused, glancing down at his notes, and Rachel felt herself tense. This was where he was meant to jump in with reassuring statistics, possibilities, options. Chemotherapy, surgery, survival rates. She wanted it all, and she wanted it to be good. “Generally speaking, yes.” Now he was the one clearing his throat. “Every brain tumour is different—located in a different part of the brain, with a different rate of growth. Some tumours are quite neat, as it were, and can be removed surgically without too much difficulty. Others are a bit more…enmeshed.” He laced his fingers together to demonstrate in a way that made Rachel want to wince. “Growing into the healthy brain tissue in a way that makes surgery difficult, if not impossible.”
“And let me guess,” their dad interjected, his voice actually possessing a thread of humour. “Mine’s the enmeshed kind.”
Mr Miller smiled faintly and inclined his head. “I’m afraid it looks that way, Mr Mowbray, although it’s difficult to say for certain without performing surgery.”
“Cutting into my brain just to see.”
“Well.” The consultant gave a rather abashed smile. “Something like that, I suppose.”
Her dad nodded slowly, accepting, unsurprised. “All right, then.”
“But there must be something you can do,” Rachel said. It was the first time she’d spoken since receiving the news, and her voice sounded croaky. “Some kind of treatment.”
“In some cases,” Mr Miller said, “I would advise surgery to remove as much of the tumour as possible, and then chemotherapy and radiation to reduce the remaining cancerous cells. There is also targeted therapy, which attacks certain chemicals in those cells, and tumour treating fields therapy, which uses an electrical field to keep those cells from multiplying.”
“Okay.” This was sounding better. There were options, at least. Several.
“But in this case,” Mr Miller continued, his tone apologetic but also final, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t recommend any of those treatments, although of course, if Mr Mowbray wishes it, we can discuss possible avenues.”
“Why wouldn’t he wish it?” Rachel demanded, while Harriet interjected quietly, “What possible avenues?”
“I’m too far gone,” their dad stated, giving the doctor a canny look. “Aren’t I?”
He sighed and then nodded. “That’s the short of it, I’m afraid. The tumour looks to be fast-growing, based on its size, and it appears to be quite entangled with your healthy brain tissue. Considering its size, and how long you’ve had the symptoms, as well as your age in terms of how the potential treatments would affect you…” He trailed off, spreading his hands. “Well, it’s a choice only you can make, Mr Mowbray. I would not recommend surgery in any case, but potentially some mild chemotherapy or radiation to extend life expectancy.”
“Right, then.” To Rachel’s horror, her dad stood up, as if getting ready to leave.
“Dad,Dad.” She tugged on his arm, urging him to sit down. “Can’t we at least hear about the possible treatments?”
“I don’t—” her father began to bluster, and Rachel tugged on his arm again.
“Just hear,” she implored quietly.
