Bridesmaid Blitz (6 page)

“Not more, Clover,” Mum moans. “I’m beginning to wish I’d never agreed to get married in the first place. I wanted something simple, but it’s all becoming such a palaver.”

“You’ll change your mind when you see what I’ve found for the wedding favors,” Clover tells her.

“What are wedding favors?” Mum asks.

Clover groans. “Sylvie! Get with the program. . . .”

I leave them to it.

Once in my room, Seth says, “That was nice grub, Amy. Your mum’s all right. And Clover’s a good laugh.”

“You didn’t mind her quizzing you?” I say, sitting down on my bed.

“Nah. ’S been pretty quiet at home the last few days. Polly’s been sleeping a lot and I was starting to forget what my own voice sounded like.”

“Was Polly OK about you coming over this evening?” I ask gently.

“Sure. Said she’s glad I’m getting fed properly.”

From the way he’s intently studying my Andy Warhol print and avoiding eye contact, I know there’s something else on his mind. I wait for a second, hoping this time he’ll open up.

Eventually he does. “Sorry, I’m such a downer at the moment. If you decide it’s not worth the hassle and you want out —”

“Seth! I know things are tough for you, with Polly and everything, but you’re not a downer. I love being with you — even when you’re not on top of the world, you still make me happy.”

Still staring at the print, he runs his finger over the bottom of the frame. It comes away dusty and he wipes it on his jeans. “If you like having me around so much, why are you trying to bundle me off to Paris?”

“I want you to go to Paris ’cos I know how much you’ll love it and how much you’ve always wanted to go, not ’cos I’m trying to get rid of you. You’ve had a pretty tough time of it recently and you deserve to have fun. Mills’s going and you know you’ll enjoy it once you’re there. Does Polly know you’re having second thoughts?”

“Yeah, and she’s not exactly thrilled,” he admits. “Like you, she really wants me to go. But Polly’s not the only reason I want to stay put. Do I have to spell it out? I don’t have much in my life right now, and I know it’s only a week, but if I go away and something happens . . . to us . . . while I’m gone . . . I mean, look what happened when I was in Rome. . . .” He tails off and blows out his breath. “Look, I don’t know if I’d cope if it all went wrong. . . . It’s safer if I stay here.”

I’m genuinely shocked. “Where you can keep an eye on me?” I demand. “Is that what you’re saying? You have a pretty low opinion of me if you think I’ll be chasing someone else the minute your back’s turned.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Really? ’Cos that’s what it sounded like.” (But maybe that’s my guilty conscience talking. When Seth was in Rome, I met a gorgeous gardener in West Cork named Kit. Nothing happened, but I’ve never told Seth about him: it’s been my summer secret.)

“I’m sorry if it came out that way,” Seth says. “It’s not that, honest. It’s more that I feel bad for dragging you into all this Polly stuff.”

“Seth, I don’t mind, honestly. I just want to —”

“Don’t say it, Amy.”

I strangle my “help” and instead say, “Come here, Seth.”

He sits down beside me, our thighs pressing together, and I trace my fingernails up the side of his neck, lightly, gently, feeling my way along his jawbone; his skin is cool and taut. I hold his face in my hands and gaze into his eyes. Then I touch his lips gently, running my fingertip over the dark-red ridges. He nips my finger with his teeth, then hugs me close, almost knocking the breath out of me. He kisses me, gently at first, tiny butterfly caresses on my eyelids, cheeks, chin, lips. Then firmer, his lips urgent, strong.

I smile to myself. Now there are two things I can do to help him — I can feed him and I can hold him, kiss him and make him forget his troubles for a second. And knowing that makes me feel a tiny bit better.

Later that evening, my mobile rings.

“Amy, it’s Polly — Seth’s mum.”

“Oh, um, hi, Polly.”

Polly laughs. “Don’t sound so worried, Amy. I just wanted to ring to say thanks for feeding Seth. Hope he didn’t make too much of a pig of himself. And he seems in much better form this evening, much chirpier. Guess I have you to thank for that too.”

My cheeks glow. Just as well we’re not talking face-to-face — I hope he hasn’t shared
everything
with her.

“He’s such a good lad,” she continues. “Takes on a lot for a fourteen-year-old. I’m always telling him not to, but he doesn’t listen. He worries far too much. Did he tell you about the new batch of tests?”

“Yes. Are you OK?”

It just slips out before I can stop it. Of course she’s not OK, you eejit, I tell myself. But it’s too late now.

She doesn’t sound bothered, though. “Yeah. But waiting for the results is a killer.”

“Seth said you might get them in the middle of the Paris trip.”

“Rubbish timing, isn’t it? I keep telling him to go anyway, but he won’t listen to me.”

“Is there a chance you might get them before he goes?”

“I’ve nagged Dr. Shine’s office half to death. You never know — maybe we’ll get a break. Seth deserves it and I really, really want him to go. He’s been amazing with all this —” She breaks off to cough — short, hacking coughs, like a cat with a fur ball. She sounds terrible. “Sorry about that,” she says, her breath a little ragged now. “I’d better go before Seth catches me talking to you and has a hissy fit. And thanks again. He’s lucky to have you, Amy. It makes things easier knowing that he has someone special looking out for him.”

“He looks out for me too.”

“That’s good to hear.” She starts coughing again. “Better run.” And with that, she’s gone.

After hanging up, I wander down to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Dave’s leaning over the sink, scrubbing the lasagna dish. He looks over. “Hi, Amy. How goes it?”

“OK.” To be honest, I’m feeling a bit down after talking to Polly. She didn’t sound at all well.

“What’s wrong? You look like somebody’s just died.”

I glare at him, spin on my heels, and walk toward the door.

He comes after me, puts a hand on my shoulder. “Whoa, there. What did I say?”

“I’m going to bed,” I say, shrugging his hand away.

“Is it school?” he asks. “If someone’s bullying you, I swear to God I’ll go in there and knock their block off.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. The image of Dave marching into Saint John’s to confront Annabelle or Sophie is just so funny. They’d eat him up and spit out his bones.

“It’s nothing to do with school,” I say. “Look, I don’t have the energy to go into it.”

“Is it Seth? Sylvie said he was here for dinner. Said he didn’t look great. Is something up at home?”

Dear Lord, he’s worse than Clover. I give in. “I think Seth’s mum has cancer again. She’s had to have all these tests and Seth’s really worried she’s going to die.” There, it’s out, and it’s a relief to finally say it out loud.

And amazingly he doesn’t tell me I’m being silly or melodramatic. He just asks, “What kind of tests?”

I tell him what Seth told me and he nods. “Sounds like they’re trying to find out if the cancer’s spread. But it doesn’t necessarily mean it
has
spread, Amy. It might be just a precaution. They’ll know more once all the results are back.”

“But why does it all take so long, Dave? It’s so cruel making Polly wait for two weeks for the results.”

Dave clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Two weeks? Does sound like a long time, all right. You don’t know who her doctor is, by any chance, do you? I could look into it, if you like, see if they can speed things up.”

“Polly said something about a Dr. Shine.”

Dave nods. “That would be right. She’s American; head of the breast clinic. Nice woman. Polly’s Polly Stone, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Let me have a word with the good doc, see what the story is. I can’t promise anything — they have a lot of patients in there — but if I explain the situation and she can do something, I’m sure she will.”

Suddenly, it all feels too much and I burst into tears. “Is Polly going to die?”

Dave puts his arm around me, and I breathe in his familiar after-work bleachy smell. “Amy, she’s in good hands. The best. She beat it before, right?”

Mum or Clover must have told him. I nod. I’m crying so much I’m unable to say anything.

“Then there’s every chance she’ll beat it again. And as I said, the tests may just be a precaution. These days there are amazing drugs out there that knock those stupid cancer cells right out of the ballpark.”

“Some drugs,” I say. “Polly’s don’t even work. Tamox . . . or something.”

“Tamoxifen.” He pauses. “Amy, look at me and listen carefully.”

He sounds serious, so I wipe the tears from my eyes and try to concentrate. “If Dr. Shine had Polly on tamoxifen, that’s good news, understand? It means her cancer cells need estrogen to grow. Do you know what estrogen is?”

I nod. “We did it in biology. It’s a female hormone. Made in the ovaries.”

“Good woman. It means her cancer may be easier to treat than other cancers. If the tamoxifen isn’t working, there may be other drugs that will. It’s one of the reasons the hospital brought Dr. Shine in from New York — she’s had a lot of success with her clinical trials for other cancer drugs. I know this is a lot for you to take in, but there’s still lots they can do for Polly.”

I start crying again. “Why do people get cancer in the first place? It’s horrible.”

“I know, Amy, believe me. Every day I have to deal with the fact that horrible things happen to decent, ordinary people. That’s just life, I’m afraid. And we have to make the most of it.” He breathes out slowly. “Pretty heavy stuff for a Wednesday evening. You all right?”

I shrug, feeling drained but surprisingly relieved. Dave’s pretty direct, and he wouldn’t tell me there was hope if there really wasn’t. “Guess so.”

“I’ll talk to Dr. Shine tomorrow, I promise. In the meanwhile, try not to worry about it too much. There’s a reasonable chance Polly will be fine — the tests may come back negative.”

A reasonable chance?
My heart sinks again. I know he’s only being honest, but just this once, I wish Dave could morph into sunny-side-up Mills and tell me what I want to hear.

The following evening, for the first time ever, I can’t wait for Dave to come home. Every time I hear a car door bang outside, I rush into the hall, hoping it’s him. At ten past nine, he finally walks in the door. (I can see why Mum gets so fed up with him. He was supposed to be home before eight.)

“Did you talk to Dr. Shine?” I blurt out. “Is there any news?”

“Whoa, Amy! Let me get my jacket off before you bombard me with questions. Let’s take this into the kitchen, or we’ll wake the babies.”

“Well?” I ask impatiently as soon as he’s closed the kitchen door behind us.

“The good news is Dr. Shine is going to fast-track Polly’s results — Polly should have them by the end of next week. Dr. Shine says obviously she can’t discuss a patient’s details, but she told me to reassure Seth that she’ll do everything in her power to keep Polly alive for many years to come.”

I start crying again.
Siúcra
, I’m like Niagara Falls these days.

“Thank you,” is all I can manage to say, but I think Dave understands.

Now we all just have to wait.

“Clover! Yuck! Take your finger out of my nostril!”

“Hang in there, Amy. Nearly got it.”

“Ow, Clover. Ow, ow, ow!”

“Attaboy!” Clover studies the top of her nail as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “
Siúcra
, Beanie, I just extracted the most gigantic blackhead. A whopper. Top’s almost the size of a pinhead. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen —”

I groan. “I appreciate the running commentary, but you’re not making me feel any better about my spots.” I pick up the compact mirror and peer at the flashing red ridge between my nose and cheek. At least the offending zit is gone — even if my skin is protesting at Clover’s rather violent treatment.

Clover leans toward me. “I can see more blackheads,” she says, a little too gleefully for my liking.

“Step away from the blackheads,” I tell her, flicking the mirror closed and putting my hand up like a traffic warden. “Go and squeeze your own spots, you freakoid.”