The Mother's Promise by Sally Hepworth
ONE
With what price we pay for the glory of motherhood.
—ISADORA DUNCAN
1
When the doctor gave Alice Stanhope the news, she was thinking about Zoe. Was she all right? Was today a bad day? What was she doing? In fact, Alice was so swept up in thoughts of Zoe that when the doctor cleared his throat she startled.
“Sorry,” she said. “I zoned out for a second.”
Dr. Brookes glanced at the nurse on Alice’s right, who sat with her hand close to, but not quite touching, Alice’s. The nurse’s role in this hadn’t been entirely clear until this moment, when she scooted a little closer on her chair. Clearly she was here to translate the medical speak. “Alice, Dr. Brookes was just saying that, unfortunately, your test results … they’re not what we hoped for. Given the ultrasound, and now these test results, I’m afraid…”
On the wall clock, Alice noticed the time: 10:14 A.M. Zoe would be in third period. Science. Or would she? Some days, if she wasn’t feeling up to it, she skipped a class or two in the middle of the day. Alice always covered for her. In fact, if it weren’t for this appointment, she might have suggested Zoe have a day at home today. Instead she’d watched as Zoe packed up her books and bravely headed out the door. In a way, the brave days were the worst. The strained smile, the I’m fine, Mom, was somehow more painful to take than the I ache, Mom, I can’t face the day.
“Alice?”
Alice looked at the nurse, whose name she’d forgotten, and apologized again. She tried to focus, but Zoe lurked in the shadows of her thoughts—so much that the nurse started to look a little like Zoe. The nurse was older, of course—thirtyish, maybe—but she was pretty, with the same chestnut hair and pink lips Zoe had, the same heart-shaped face. She even had Zoe’s pallor, off-white with purplish shadows under her eyes.
“Would you like to go over it again?” the nurse suggested.
Alice nodded and tried to concentrate as the nurse talked about a “mass,” a CA 125 score, a something-or-other-ectomy. She knew this nurse—Kate, according to her name badge—and Dr. Brookes didn’t think she was taking it seriously enough, but Alice simply couldn’t seem to conjure up the required feelings of fear and dread. She’d been through it too many times. The irregular Pap smear, the unusual breast lump, the rash no one could seem to diagnose. She seemed to have a knack for attracting illnesses and ailments that required just enough investigation to be financially and emotionally draining, but—and she knew she ought to be grateful for this—always stopped short of the main event. Now it was happening again. She was prepared to go through the motions—as a single mother, she was committed to looking after her health—but what she really wanted was to get it over with, so she could get to work.
“Alice,” Kate was saying, “I’m concerned that you’re here alone. Is there someone I can call for you? There was no emergency contact listed on your paperwork. Perhaps you have a family member or a friend…?”
“No.”
“You don’t have anyone?”
“No,” she said. “It’s just my daughter and me.”
The doctor and nurse exchanged a look.
Alice knew what they were thinking. How could she not have anyone? Where are her family and friends? They probably couldn’t wait to leave so they could talk about her. Alice couldn’t wait to leave too.
“How old is your daughter?” Kate asked finally.
“Zoe just turned fifteen.”
“And … Zoe’s father…?”
“… isn’t in the picture.”
Alice braced for a reaction. Whenever she imparted this particular piece of information, women tended to wince and then offer a sympathetic noise as if she’d told them she’d broken a toe. But the nurse didn’t react at all. It raised her slightly in Alice’s opinion.
“What about your parents?” she asked. “Siblings?”
“My parents have both passed away. My brother would be less than useless as an emergency contact.”
“Are you sure,” she started. “Because—”
“He’s an alcoholic. A practicing alcoholic. Not that he needs the practice…”
Not so much as a smile from either of them. Dr. Brookes sat forward. “Mrs. Stanhope—”
“Ms. Stanhope,” Alice corrected. “Or Alice.”
“Alice. We need to schedule you for surgery as soon as possible.”
“Okay.” Alice reached into her tote and pulled out her day planner. She flicked it to today’s date. “Is it possible to do a Friday, because I don’t work Fridays. Except the first Friday in the month, when I drive Mrs. Buxton to her Scrabble meeting—”
“Mrs. Buxton?” Kate said, suddenly animated. Alice realized the nurse had mistaken her for a potential support person.
“Oh no,” Alice explained. “She’s eighty-three. I look after her, not the other way around. It’s my job. I mean, I’m not a nurse or anything. I keep elderly people company, cook and clean a bit. Drive them around. Atherton Home Helpers, that’s my business.” Alice was rambling; she needed to get it together. “So … the operation … is it a day procedure?”