Seven Days(54)

Jazz pushed the bed into a room full of screens and monitors. A doctor followed her in. She was in her fifties and had short bottle-blonde hair.

‘I’m Dr Green.’ She consulted a computer screen. ‘You’ve had gas and bloating. Some weight loss. Blood in stool.’ She looked at Sandra. ‘Any pain?’

‘Not really. Nothing too bad.’

‘Not really? Or not too bad?’

‘Not really.’

‘OK. Let’s take a look.’

Jazz put an arm on her shoulder. ‘I’m going to give you some sedative now. You’ll probably feel tired. Go to sleep if you like. Or you can watch the show.’ She pointed at a screen. ‘It’ll all be up there.’

Sandra looked up.

‘I think I’ll try and watch,’ she said.





7


She came around in the examining room.

She’d been planning to watch the procedure, but the voices had gradually faded and her vision had dimmed as the sedative took effect. She still felt a bit woozy; it was no wonder the hospital insisted you take a taxi or get a lift home. There was no way she should be driving.

The door opened and Jazz came in. She put a cup of tea and a packet of bourbon biscuits on the table next to Sandra.

‘There you go. Take your time. Dr Green will be along to talk to you in a few minutes. She wants to discuss the results of the colonoscopy with you.’

‘OK. Thank you.’

‘Not a problem. Enjoy your tea.’

Sandra felt a small frisson of anxiety. Did the doctor want to talk to her because something was wrong? Or did she talk to all her patients? Maybe if you managed to stay awake you heard what she had to say during the procedure and it was only the patients who went to sleep who needed a special visit.

She sipped the tea. She felt its warmth spread through her body. She opened the packet of biscuits and took a large bite. God, it was good to get something inside her stomach.

There was a knock on the door. It scraped on the floor as it opened. Dr Green came in and sat on the chair opposite her.

‘So,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m good. Awake now. I didn’t expect to fall asleep.’

‘Yes. It’s powerful stuff.’ She put her hands in her lap, fingers intertwined. She caught Sandra’s eye. ‘There are some things we need to discuss, Mrs Cooper.’

She was unsmiling, her expression serious. Sandra felt her appetite drain away. She put the biscuit down.

‘What?’ she said. ‘What do we need to discuss?’





8


Dr Green pressed her fingers together. ‘I did find something during the procedure, Mrs Cooper. There’s a large tumour in your upper colon. I took a biopsy and we’ll get that to the lab right away.’

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Sandra had imagined the scene many times, gone through all the possibilities, but it was still a shock when the doctor said it.

‘A tumour?’ she said. ‘Is it cancer?’

‘We’ll find out exactly what it is when we get the lab results, but that’s a possibility.’

Sandra put her face in her hands. She rubbed her temples. Her legs felt weak. Was this it? Was this how it ended? Her dead, Maggie gone? It was so unfair to Martin. He was such a wonderful husband. She had loved him since they had first met, had always felt incredibly lucky to have a partner who was so decent. She would never have thought that was what she wanted in a husband – decency – but it turned out that was what mattered. Dependable, calm, loving, decent: not exactly Heathcliff, but exactly what she wanted.

And now he might be left a widower, father to a kidnapped girl and a damaged boy. What had he done to deserve that?

She looked up at the doctor.

‘Do I—’ she said. ‘Will I – do I have any options?’

The doctor gave a reassuring smile. ‘Plenty. I know this is unwelcome news, but there’s quite a way to go before we get to that. Let’s wait for the results and we can take it from there.’

‘I want to know …’ Sandra paused. ‘You probably get this question from everyone, and you probably can’t answer it, but I’d like you to tell me – honestly – if I’m going to survive. I have – I have a husband. And a son.’

‘I know you want certainty,’ the doctor replied. ‘But it’s too early. We’ll get the test results and make a decision then.’

Sandra picked up her phone.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I need to call my husband.’





9


She got the news four days later.

It was cancer. Treatable, according to the oncologist, a slight man in his fifties with a goatee beard and a bowtie.

First, surgery to remove it. Then chemotherapy to make sure it didn’t come back.

Then hope.

Hope was not a strategy that had worked for Sandra in the past. Hope had not brought Maggie back. Hope was a waste of time.

But she was going to have to rely on hope once again.

She put her hand on Martin’s knee. He was driving them home from the appointment, both hands on the wheel, at ten to two, his eyes on the road.

Observing the speed limit and all posted traffic signals.