Chapter 88

It’s five a.m. on a Tuesday morning and Sue lies in bed, curled on her side, her pillow clutched to her stomach, while she watches the light in the room change. Max sleeps beside her, his back against hers, snoring the way he has snored throughout their marriage: soft and regular, in perfect time, like the ticking of a grandfather clock.

Something is not right.

It started the day after her wake-like birthday party. A kind of dull ache in her stomach. She put it down to eating too much spicy food at the party and drinking more than usual due to stress. It was just her middle-aged digestive system not being able to cope with a party. It was not a sign of something terrible. She told no one, went to work, and the feeling came and went, and she convinced herself it was all in her head. That night she had a long bubble bath, unusual for her, tried to make herself relax, went to bed early, told herself it was psychosomatic.

But the next day she felt even worse, and the pain seemed to be moving, possibly radiating into her back, and then: itchiness.

Itchy skin is on the list, along with abdominal pain, loss of appetite, fatigue, nausea, and vomiting. The awful list: Early signs of pancreatic cancer. The list that means it’s happening. The Death Lady’s prediction is coming true, just like all the others. No getting off that roller coaster. People used to say that to her when she was pregnant.

Sue has not mentioned her symptoms to anyone. Of course, she will take action very soon, but once she says the words out loud it will set everything in motion. There will be no going back. Appointments, forms, tests, and procedures. Poking and prodding. Pain and pain relief. Prescriptions, medication, side effects, medication for the side effects, more side effects. There will be waiting: for results, for phone calls, for treatment plans, for busy people to get back to her. There will be nothing else but the disease. She just wants a few more moments in her beautiful normal life. She now understands the pregnant woman from the plane and her desire to simply ignore her diagnosis, especially if she believes that she is ultimately going to die anyway. Sue sees it in the face of every patient at her work: Let me get back to my life, I don’t belong here, I don’t want to be here, I have things to do. They tell her what they were busy doing just before their life was interrupted by this trip to the ER. They want her to know: Out there I am somebody.

The nausea swells and recedes.

She was so lucky with all her pregnancies. No nausea at all. She got pregnant easily and she coped well. She’s been lucky with her health. She’s never had an operation. She’s only been in the hospital to give birth.

Your luck has to run out sometime.

What’s that awful statistic? One in two people will develop some form of cancer at some point in their life. It’s her turn.

She finds herself thinking about their honeymoon. Not exactly glamorous. They drove to the Seal Rocks Caravan Park in Max’s ute. It was all they could afford at the time. Her sons would never consider anything less than a tropical resort for a honeymoon. That’s how it goes. Each new generation has higher expectations. Goodness knows what the grandchildren will expect for their honeymoons. A trip to the moon! Funny. She won’t be there. She won’t see them grow up. She got to see the kids grow up. Some people don’t get that.

Gosh, though, how could their honeymoon have been any better? Salty skin and the smell of frying bacon and the sound of the waves and the stars twinkling down at them through the caravan skylight. Laughing in bed. They’ve always done a lot of laughing in bed.

She realizes she is thinking about their honeymoon because she and Max woke up each morning on their honeymoon at this time, when the light had this exact dreamlike quality, and they’d have dreamlike sex, and then fall back to sleep again.

Not that she feels like sex now, of course. God. She couldn’t think of anything worse.

She reaches for her phone on the nightstand and checks the Death Lady Facebook page again. Maybe there will finally be good news.

A passenger has posted a photo of the lady. She has one arm outstretched, ballerina straight, her mouth open, as if she is making an accusation. She looks noble. Like Joan of Arc. Sue doesn’t remember her seeming noble. She remembers how she thought the lady seemed nice and ordinary, like someone she would know from her aqua aerobics class. Clearly, she’s not an ordinary person. Clearly, she has extraordinary, terrifying, supernatural powers.

The caption says: PLEASE SHARE. DO YOU KNOW THE DEATH LADY??

There are multiple comments underneath.

She looks like my first boss at the Commonwealth Bank. Mrs. Burnett. Back when we didn’t use first names in the workplace! I actually thought she’d died years ago but it’s possible I’m wrong .

I know her. That’s SALLY VANDENBURG. She was my local pharmacist when I lived in Hurstville. A very nice lady. Surprised she got into this line of work.

That’s my former Math Teacher’s wife! Or her identical twin! Can’t remember her name, sorry. Scary experience for those of you on the flight but she is obviously a fraud, don’t let it upset you, get on with your lives, nobody knows what tomorrow may bring.

Pretty sure I know her. She threw a spring roll at me when I lived in Perth many years ago. For no apparent reason! Can’t remember her name. Very rude hysterical person.

Can’t help with identity of the Death Lady but my business partner and I met on that flight and came up with the idea for a new protein shake business. Follow the link for more details about Phil & Pete’s Protein Shakes!

She reminds me of a woman who read my palm many years ago and told me I’d leave my marriage and find happiness. She turned out to be right. I’m sorry I don’t remember her name and it may not even be her.

I am a psychic medium and spirit guide with over thirty years’ experience. This is not the behavior of a genuine medium. Here is my link if you are interested in dealing with a professional.

—

Sue puts the phone back down. The nausea rises. She’s reminded of labor pains.

“Sue?” Max wakes. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m sick,” she says. “I’m feeling really sick.”

Max is out of bed in one swift movement. He puts his hand to her forehead.

“Need the—”

“Got it.” He’s back, lightning fast, with the infamous yellow bucket that has been used for decades of tummy bugs and too much party food and teenage boys making their first disastrous experiments with alcohol.

He is calm. He can’t handle the anticipation of a crisis, but once the crisis is happening, he deals with it. Both his grandfathers were war heroes. Her darling husband has heroism in his blood.

He adjusts the quilt over her shoulders, brushes her hair out of her eyes. Her husband the plumber is actually an excellent nurse. She always forgets this because she is so rarely ill.

“I’m very sick,” she says pitifully.

She also always forgets that she, the nurse, is a terrible patient: needy, whiny, not at all brave. She groans, puts her head into the bucket, and feels the comforting pressure of his hand on her back.

“I know, darling,” he says. “We’ll get you better.”

He sounds so assured and confident, Sue almost believes him.