What Lies Between Us(53)

I’m tucking into my food while she pushes her beef stroganoff and mushrooms around the plate like she’s placing chips on a roulette table. She scrapes her fork against the surface and it takes us both a little by surprise, because it’s still peculiar to hear her using metal and not plastic. Neither of us comments on this luxury now being the norm.

I’m overcome by the necessity to fill the void. ‘Is the food okay?’ I ask pointedly.

‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ she says and gives me a smile I recognise. It’s the one she relies on when she’s trying to reassure me that everything is okay when it’s not. She used it on the day Dad left; it’s part apologetic and part trying to minimise something seismic.

‘I bought fresh meat instead of the frozen stuff and I made the sauce from scratch,’ I continue. ‘I found the recipe in one of Jamie Oliver’s books.’

‘It’s delicious,’ she says, and that bloody smile returns.

It’s the last straw. I put my cutlery down on the plate and dab at the corners of my mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Because clearly something is bothering you.’

‘It’s nothing,’ she replies, but she can’t, or won’t, make eye contact with me.

‘Mum,’ I continue, then quickly correct myself. ‘Maggie. Let’s not play these games. I’m not an idiot.’

She takes a deep breath and pushes her half-full plate to one side. ‘I’ve found a lump in my breast,’ she says.

That, I was not expecting. I take my time searching her face for an indication that she is lying to me.

‘A lump,’ I repeat.

‘Yes. In my left breast.’

‘How large is it?’

‘It’s about the size of a pea.’

‘When did you find it?’

‘A few days ago.’

‘Why haven’t you said anything before?’

‘I didn’t want to worry you.’

A persistent doubt remains. There’s only one way to know for certain. ‘Show me,’ I say.

She appears disappointed that I’m not taking her word for it, but I don’t back down. Dictators never do. So she removes her top and remains bare-chested and seated and as vulnerable as I have ever seen her.

‘Where?’ I ask, moving closer to her and reaching out my hand. She guides me towards it and I can immediately feel it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s definitely a lump.

‘Shit,’ I say without thinking.

‘Can I get dressed, please?’

I nod my head and she does.

I return to my seat, neither of us passing further comment. I am aware that my thoughts are of the selfish kind because this discovery puts me in a very difficult position. The plan was to keep Maggie upstairs for either twenty-one years of her life or until she died, whichever came first. At her age, it was likely to be the latter, but now it looks as if it might happen much sooner than I anticipated. I’m not sure how to feel.

My conscience pipes up out of the blue: am I the cause of this? Has the stress of what I’m putting her under built up and up and culminated in her potentially developing cancer? I shake my head. No, I think, and I remind myself that it’s a curse that’s blighted her side of the family for three generations. It’s why Maggie taught me from an early age to check myself regularly, and why I never miss an appointment for a mammogram as I’m at a higher risk than most women. Then I realise I’m assuming the worst. It could be anything from a boil to a cyst. A lump doesn’t necessarily mean cancer.

When it comes down to it, I suppose the cause of this lump doesn’t matter. The fact is that it exists, and if it’s the worst-case scenario, then I’m not sure what to do. I think of Bobby and I want to call him and tell him what’s happened, but I can’t. Doing so would mean opening up a can of worms I’d never be able to put the lid back on because even if I told him the full story, I don’t think he’d ever be able to understand why I’ve done what I’ve done. Besides, I can’t make him complicit in my behaviour. Maggie has put him through enough already.





CHAPTER 46





NINA


TWO YEARS EARLIER


Flute and violin folk music floats from the ceiling speakers. I’m alone and rereading Bobby’s Facebook messages for what might be the thousandth time. It’s as if by looking at what he wrote again and again, I might be able to interpret his words in a different way.

Because you’re my sister, he wrote. With the best will in the world, there’s no way to misconstrue a statement like that.

I place my phone face down on the table and try to move my mind away from what might come by taking in my surroundings instead. The layout and the garden are familiar, but the generic decor is at odds with my hazy memory. Jon and I came here back in the day, but when it was a rock music venue and not the badly put together Irish-themed pub it is now. Nothing in here has come within fifty miles of the Emerald Isle, not even the Guinness it promotes so heavily.

I pick up my phone again and glance at the time. I’m still fifteen minutes early and already I’m a bag of nerves. I take a sip of my lemonade and regret not choosing something to take the edge off how I’m feeling. But I need to keep my wits about me.