“Happy is a state of mind, Annie.”
Annie’s head was a mess. The Polly she’d met at the reception desk forty-seven days ago, that woman’s life had just been crushed to pieces, too? She couldn’t believe it.
Polly lay back. “I hope you’re taking note of all these inspirational sayings. I expect at least four memoirs about life with me, after I’m gone.”
DAY 48
Contemplate mortality
“Hello, I’m here to see—”
“She’s busy right now,” Annie said resignedly. She was basically Polly’s unpaid PA at the moment.
The gawkers had started showing up the day after Polly was admitted. Old friends, casual acquaintances, people she’d once done a course with or met on holiday or dated their brother. They came with grapes—Polly joked that she could start a fruit and veg shop from her room—or chocolate, or flowers, or massive cards with cartoon elephants on them clutching ice packs to bruised heads. Polly made Annie throw these in the toxic waste incinerator. “For God’s sake, I have a brain tumor, not a bump on the arm. What’s the matter with these people?” But she always saw them. Annie didn’t know why.
The most recent visitor was a very skinny middle-aged woman in a drab navy anorak, clutching a hemp bag to her chest. “Who shall I say it is?” Annie said brightly, heading her off in the corridor. Maybe after all this was over she could get a job as a receptionist. Experience—helping a very popular narcissistic friend to die.
“I’m Emily.”
“Emily...?”
“Oh, she’ll know me.” They always thought this.
“But just in case...you know, she’s very tired.”
“We used to work together, years back. I was the office manager.”
Annie shuddered, thinking of Sharon. “And did you keep in touch?”
“Oh, no. I saw her on the World Wide Web, and I said, That’s Polly! Polly the PR girl! And I wanted to bring her this.” She extracted something from her handbag—a badly printed pamphlet that read Heal Yourself with Food. Annie could smell her whiff of patchouli and sweat. “You see, there’s still time, but it has to be now.”
“Time for what?” Annie strained away.
“To go vegan. She always ate a lot of that posh stringy ham, didn’t she, drank too much, had milk in her coffee? If you show her this pamphlet, though, she can cure herself with fasting and herbs and—”
Annie pasted on a smile. “Thank you, Emily. The thing is, she’s only allowed so many visitors per day. Doctor’s orders. But I’ll make sure she gets this. Thanks now. Byeeee!”
“No, no, you have to let me see her—it’s really important. Who are you, anyway?”
“I’ll handle this, Annie. Thank you.” Valerie had appeared, paper cup of tea in hand. “What’s going on?”
Emily rushed over to clasp Valerie’s hand. “You must be her mother! There’s such a likeness. Hello, hello, I’ve come to give her some pamphlets.”
“Her has a name,” Valerie said tersely. “What sort of pamphlets?”
Emily pressed one on her. “I’ve got a cure for her cancer right here. It’s very simple. She just has to avoid meat, sugar, alcohol, gluten and all additives.”
There was a pause as Valerie read the pamphlet. “Do you actually know my daughter? Have you kept in touch?”
“Not for some years, but I heard what was happening and felt compelled to come down! I mean, it’s so easy to heal yourself without all these dreadful toxins and poisons.” She looked around at the hospital corridor with distaste. “They just keep the truth from us because of ‘big pharma.’” She did air quotes, dropping some of her leaflets.
“So let me get this straight. You, a virtual stranger, took it on yourself to come to my little girl’s hospital bed and tell her she has cancer because, what, she ate a chocolate bar once?”
“Not just that. Meat, alcohol, dairy—they all lead directly to cancer. But she can still save herself! She just has to leave hospital, come off her treatments and start intermittent fasting immediately.” Emily beamed.
Valerie took a deep breath, swelling with rage. “How...dare you? How dare you come here, to where they’re actually trying to save her life, and suggest she’s suffering like this because of...ham? Get out!”
“But—”
“No. I said go, or I’ll call security!”
Emily scarpered, uttering some decidedly non-Zen curses on her way. “Are you okay?” Annie asked Valerie, who was shaking.
“Yes. No, not really. These people just won’t leave her alone. Everyone wants something from her, thinks they can tell her what to do. It isn’t fair.”
Annie wondered if that was how Valerie saw her, too. And maybe it was true. “Can I get you anything...do you need to sit down?”
“I’m fine. I’ll just—I don’t want Polly to see me like this.” She was clutching her cup so tightly beads of beige liquid were rolling down the side and puddling on the floor. Valerie stooped to rescue the leaflets, gazing at them. “It’s really happening, isn’t it. She’s not going to be saved by massage or reiki or some amazing new cure or any of this stuff.”
“I don’t think so,” Annie said as gently as she could. It was so tempting to lie, say there might still be a last-minute miracle, but she knew there wouldn’t be.
“I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try. To have some hope.”
“It doesn’t. But... I think she’s ready to face up to it now. To make the rest of her life as good as she can.”
Valerie bit her lip. “Thank you for all you do for her, Annie. Please don’t think we haven’t noticed. I know it isn’t easy.”
“It’s fine. She does more for me, far more.”
“All the same. We’re very grateful.”
Leaving her alone—she thought Valerie might need a little private cry—Annie went back in to Polly, who was looking ruefully at her latest floral tribute, an arrangement of cacti in a Hope Your Temperature Doesn’t Spike pot. “What do you think these symbolize? My spiky personality?”
“Maybe. Here.” She dropped the pamphlet on the bed. “Your mum got rid of a hippie for you, though I’m sure she’ll be back. Emily from your old work.”
Polly had to think about it. “Dear God. Vegan Emily? Saving your spirit, not your documents. She was hopeless with IT, we lost the entire server three times.”
“Don’t they realize it’s not cool to come here and hound you?” Annie dropped into the chair by the bed.
Polly shrugged. “They’re sort of thrilled by it. Terrified it might happen to them, relieved that it isn’t. It’s voyeurism, really. And if they can think of a way it might be my own fault, that makes them feel safer.”
“Why do you even see these people?”
“What else do I have to do in here? And besides, people really listen to you when you’re dying. It’s one of the perks. Who knows, maybe I’ll inspire some of them to change their lives and be happy.”
“Or maybe they’re just coming to have a gawp at your bald head.”
“Maybe.” Polly smiled. “Good job I have you here, Annie. Things might get dangerously positive otherwise, and we wouldn’t want that. What would I do without you, eh, Betty Buzzkill?”
“You’re welcome. Now, it’s time for your commode, Baldy.”