“Now!”
Annie turned the chair sideways, and shut the door behind them. She looked about them at the quiet, warm space, the light filtered through a blue stained glass window. They were in the chapel. One place in the hospital she had always refused to go, even when her mother asked to be taken. She just couldn’t. Her hands clenched on the rubber handles of the wheelchair. “Come on, Poll, let’s go.”
“Why? Let’s just sit for a minute. It’s nice and quiet.”
She was going to be late for work yet again. Reluctantly, Annie parked the chair and sat on one of the wooden pews. It didn’t feel like part of the hospital. You could hardly hear the rushing feet outside, and the smell of disinfectant was overridden by a gentler one of incense.
Polly sat in silence for a while. “I’ve been putting off this bit, to be honest.”
“What bit?”
“The one where I turn to God, or Allah, or the mystical universe, or whatever you want to call it. The one where I look for a loophole.”
Was Polly sinking back into denial, looking for miracles? “A loophole?”
“That’s what religion is, isn’t it? It’s just a way to put off accepting that you’re going to die, and that’s it. To not face the fact that when we die we just...disappear.”
“Is that what you think?” They were speaking quietly.
Polly’s gaze was fixed on the altar, her face colored blue by the shifting light. “It’s what I always thought before. I didn’t want to change my mind just because I had cancer. I guess...all this happy-days stuff, the reason for it, was I wanted my life to mean something now, not just after I die.”
“Your life does mean something. You have to know that it does, Poll. You’ve reached so many people already.”
“Does it?” She rubbed a hand over her head, grimacing as it came away with a fistful of gold strands. “God. I’m falling apart. Is this it, Annie? Will I ever get out of here again?”
“Of course,” Annie said, trying to sound confident. “This is just a...setback.”
“Sometimes I wish it was over. That’s terrible, isn’t it? I mean, here’s Mum and Dad and even Dr. McGrumpy doing their best to keep me alive, and some days I wish I could say stop. Stop all the needles and tubes and pumping poison into me. Let me go somewhere nice, where it’s sunny and hot waiters can bring me mai tais in the pool and I could just slip away. I don’t think I want to die in Lewisham, Annie. No offense. I mean, I know it’s a really vibrant borough and has some of the lowest council tax in London, but it’s not exactly Bali, is it?”
“Not exactly,” she agreed. “Although is Bali going to have Crossrail? I think not.”
“Damn, Annie, I’m going to miss Crossrail. Isn’t that typical? All of the disruption and I won’t even get to ride the bloody thing. Ooops, sorry for swearing.” She directed the “sorry” toward the altar. There was no reply. She gave a juddering sigh, and put her hands on her thin thighs, resolute. “Right. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m not dying yet—I was promised a hundred days and I haven’t had it. So I’m going to get well, or at least less dying-y, and come out and we’ll do something lovely. I’m not sitting around here waiting to die.”
“Sounds like a plan. But for now you better rest, or you won’t be able to order us about, and then what would you do?”
“I’ll order you about with my dying breath, Annie Hebden née Clarke. Now wheel me back to bed.”
As they went out they were clocked by Dr. Max, who was checking a patient’s chart at the nurses’ station. “There you are! For the love of God, Polly, we almost had search parties out for you!”
“I was praying,” Polly said piously. “Praying for you, Dr. Max, that you’ll have the strength to do your duties with patience and forgiveness.” She crossed herself ostentatiously.
He shook his head. “Bloody woman. I’m surprised at you, Annie.”
“Sorry, Doctor,” she said, chastened. “I’ll get her back to bed.”
As they wheeled off she heard Polly whisper, “‘Oh, sorry, Doctor, I’m such a baaad girl. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got under your kilt?’”
“The sooner they put you on a ventilator, the better,” Annie muttered, slamming the door behind them.
DAY 43
Ride a roller coaster
Annie stopped in the corridor, the bunch of yellow roses rustling in her hand. She could hear voices from farther down, just outside Polly’s room. Valerie and Roger again, hissing at each other.
“Your daughter is dying, Roger, and you can’t even leave your phone at home for one day?”
“It’s work, Valerie! Someone still has to earn the money around here. What if Polly needs specialist care? I don’t want my little girl in pain or discomfort, and Lord knows you haven’t earned a penny in years.”
“Isn’t that just like you. Using work as an excuse to do nothing at home for nearly forty years now. But this isn’t the time, okay? She needs you home! Not in the office or the pub or swigging whiskey in your study and—”
“Christ, Valerie, why must you always make it about you? I’m not the one upsetting Polly, yelling like a fishwife.”
Annie felt a light hand on her shoulder. She turned to George. “Sorry for intruding,” she said quietly.
“They’ve been like this for days. It’s awful at home. Snipe snipe snipe.”
“I should go. I brought these—can you take them to Polly?”
George shook his head. “Leave them with the nurses. She’s pretending she’s out of it, but she’s not too bad. Just can’t take Mum and Dad anymore.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, you and I have instructions.”
“What? I have to go to work in a minute.”
“Call in sick.”
“But I can’t, I—”
“Please, Annie. I need to do this. I can’t sit around here feeling useless, watching her die, listening to Mum and Dad fight. And Polly was insistent. I know it’s stupid, this hundred-days thing, but it seems to be kind of giving her hope. Or if not hope, then something, anyway. A reason to not give in. To wake up in the morning.”
Annie had thought the same. She looked at her watch—8:00 a.m. “What’s the instructions?”
George held out a piece of paper. Annie looked at it. “Are you serious?”
“Yup. And she wants us to film it. Since she can’t go herself, she says. So, can you call in sick?”
Annie hated doing that—her fake sick voice was deeply unconvincing. “I’m the world’s worst actress.”
“Isn’t it lucky you have a celebrated actor right here, then?” George held out his hand. “Give me the phone. Who am I asking for?”