Free After Cleo by Helen Brown Page B

Sri Lanka. There’d be smiles, tears and forgiveness.
    An iron weight formed in my chest as I heard the thump of her suitcase on the stairs. She appeared clothed entirely in white, pure and unapproachable, the way monastery students are required to dress.
    A knock on the front door revealed Ned, his eyes blazing. I couldn’t tell if he was hurt, excited or confused. All of it, possibly. Filling the doorway with his presence, he seemed taller and broader than usual, almost physically threatening, as if he was challenging us to try and thwart his role as abductor.
    One after the other, we kissed Lydia goodbye. My lips had no feeling as they brushed her cheek. This wasn’t happening. She wouldn’t, couldn’t abandon me . . .
    A rush of brisk night air. The door clicked shut. She was gone.
    Roaring with tears, I ran to the bedroom, slammed the door and flung myself on the bed.
    Lydia loved orphans. Her devotion to people in wheelchairs was beyond comprehension. She’d drop everything to attend a fundraiser for refugees. Eggs from caged hens were repulsive to her. She loved the environment so much she preferred riding my old bike to driving and wanted me to start a compost heap. Possibly she loved Ned, Buddha and her monk as well. Lydia’s heart was so huge the whole world basked in the shimmer of her loving compassion.
    How come she found it so hard to be kind to me?

Rage
    Life’s too short to eat spotty bananas
    Once my chest stopped heaving, I turned the pillow over. It was wet. I had no energy to change the pillowcase.
    Philip opened the door a crack. I told him to go away. There was nothing he could do. Besides, someone needed to be with Katharine.
    I popped a sleeping pill out of its plastic bubble, swallowed it and waited for the chemicals to kick in. The bedside light gleamed harshly on books I’d started reading in my pre-cancer life. The American War of Independence wasn’t so riveting any more. Our wedding photo beamed across the room. Philip had more hair then. I had less fat.
    Next to the photo sat a small cat statue Philip had brought back from Egypt, and a miniature plate Mum had loved. On the plate was a painting of a wild beach in mauves and blues. The scene resembled New Zealand, but the plate was made in Denmark.
    According to magazine editors bereft of ideas, a woman’s personality is revealed by the contents of her handbag. They should try investigating the lower drawer of her bedside cabinet.
    My top drawer held the usual run of spare earplugs, crosswords, sore throat lozenges, pens, scraps of paper, a magnifying mirror to pluck rogue moustache hairs, a tube of hand cream I was never going to finish, lavender oil to sprinkle over our pillows.
    The lower drawer was a Pharaoh’s tomb of priceless worldly goods. A plastic tiki pendant Sam bought for me at a fair months before he died; handmade Mother’s Day cards covered in wobbly writing and glitter. Among them was a more adult card from a couple of years earlier. It had a picture of two flamingos, one large bending protectively over a smaller one: ‘Dear Helen, Happy Mother’s Day. You raised me well. I love you. Love Lydia.’
    I’d hoovered up the ‘I love you’ and stored it under my ribs.
    Under the cards was an ancient tape recording of Mum singing for national radio in 1953. She’d chosen a maudlin song and the accompanist dragged along too slowly, but underneath the hisses and cracks of time her contralto voice was richer than burgundy.
    I wished Mum was still here. She’d have sorted Lydia and told the surgeon she was imagining things. On the other hand, perhaps Mum had been watching over me all along, giving me a heads up at the wellness retreat just before things turned to custard.
    If good comes from good, maybe cancer really is the angry disease some say it is. Years of pent-up rage could wreak havoc on the immune system. I had plenty to be mad about.
    Pouring