Page 93 of Someone Else's Shoes
He shakes his head.
Don’t you dare hug me, she thinks.Don’t you dare say something gloopy and sympathetic or go all Hallmark again. She is already feeling her usual discomfort at having made herself vulnerable, the urge to sprint away from him already creeping over her.
But he doesn’t hug her. Or say anything honeyed or saccharine. He keeps her hand in one of his and starts to walk. He says simply, ‘You will have your son. Very soon.’
‘You think?’
‘I know. I think …’ he frowns as he speaks, as if he is considering his words carefully ‘… I think I have never met a woman who is less afraid of obstacles. I think you will have your son back before too long. And I think he is probably very lucky to have you as his mother.’
It is this last thing that makes her eyes prickle. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ she says. She stops on the island in the middle of the road. ‘I’m not going to kiss you again.’
‘Why would I say nice things just to kiss you? I’m not … How did you say? Transactional.’
He shrugs, tilts his head to one side. ‘If I wanted to kiss you I would just kiss you.’
He releases her hand. She stands on the pavement island for several minutes, the traffic surging around her, before she realizes she has absolutely no idea what to say.
28
It was entirely predictable that sleep would not come, so at six, gritty-eyed and faintly nauseous with tiredness, Sam leaves the husband who may no longer be her husband, ignores the work clothes for the job she no longer has, climbs into her trainers and heads to the boxing gym. It is quiet at this time, with only the serious gym addicts locked into their own struggles, their punches and grunts echoing round the near-empty hall. A radio burbles in the corner, unnoticed. Sam warms up on the ancient running machine, feeling her legs begin to protest, her breath shortening in her chest, and then she attempts a few weights, just as Sid had told her, repetitions just to get her muscles moving, the lactic acid flowing, refusing to feel cowed by the inadequate size of her dumbbells. And then she steps off, wraps her hands, places them in the battered and vaguely pungent boxing gloves, tightening the Velcro straps with her teeth, and heads over to the punchbag.
The bag is weighted to the floor so that it does not swing too far, and she starts to punch –one two, one two– feeling her muscles start to warm, her core tightening with every impact. She sees one of the men glance over and turn away. She knows that look: it’s the dismissive look of a man who thinks she’s somewhere she doesn’t really belong, the blank stare that disregards a woman no longer considered sexually desirable. She stares at the back of his head for a moment, and then she punches hard, so that the impact hits her all the way back in her shoulder-blade. It feels good. She punches again, hard and deliberate, and she suddenly sees Simon’s face, his torso, asher fists connect with the scuffed red leather, and finds she is punching harder, the push from her shoulder, from her feet –one two. She jabs and crosses, her face contorted with the effort, sweat dripping into her eyes so that she has to wipe at them with the top of her arm, her breath coming in noisy gasps. She no longer cares if anyone is watching her or judging her crappy technique. She punches everyone who has exploited her kindness, everyone who has looked down on her, laughed at her, ignored her. She punches at the Fates that have left her with no job, the scorn of her daughter, the potential loss of her marriage, and the blows grow harder. She punches the three increasingly passive-aggressive messages her mother has left on her voicemail, the final one stating that her father is attempting to clear the second spare room himself for the Afghans and demanding to know what she is supposed to do if he falls and suffocates under all the stuff.You’ve obviously decided to disregard our feelings, just like you disregard Phil’s.
She punches the spectre of Miriam Price, the shame of becoming someonewho was sacked, and the future job she will no longer be able to look forward to. Even if Miriam had Simon’s number, there is no way her company will ignore the reasons for her departure, her lack of a reference. She hits at her own failures and weaknesses, her exhaustion and sadness, embracing the fact that her shoulders are screaming, her heart pumping, that every muscle in her body is begging her to stop. And finally, when she feels the strength ebbing from her, her T-shirt and sports bra dark with sweat, Sam wrestles off the gloves, unwraps her bandages, and throws them all into the basket. Then, gazing at her purpling knuckles with something like satisfaction, she heads to the showers.
Sam takes Andrea to her appointment on Friday. Andrea doesn’t protest when she announces that she is coming withher to this one. Sam takes the camper-van, as her car is still not working, but this is, it having been the focus of all Phil’s attention for days. She doesn’t want to ask Phil to replace the battery on the car. She doesn’t want to ask Phil anything just now. She is not ready for his cold stare, the casual shrug that suggests nothing to do with her life is his problem any more.
The two women drive in near silence, and it is not just because Sam has to concentrate harder on navigating the larger, unwieldy camper-van through the narrow streets, nerves fluttering when she tries to ease it into a parking space. Sam doesn’t want to be the person who insists that everything is going to be fine, that of course Andrea will be better.You’re a fighter! You can beat this!She learned pretty early on that this is not the way to talk to someone with a serious illness. More than ever, she knows there are no guarantees.
Andrea is paler than usual, her fingers trembling slightly as she struggles with the seatbelt, and Sam hopes this isn’t some terrible harbinger. For months she had found herself scanning Andrea’s face whenever she saw her, checking for potential weight loss, a greater frailty to her movements, any sign thatthe thingmight be winning.
She sips black coffee in the hospital waiting room, staring unseeing at the pages of a magazine when Andrea’s name is called, and when Andrea motions to her to come too, part of her is afraid, and part of her is relieved that this means she doesn’t have to be out here alone with her thoughts.
They sit down in the little room without even attempting to smile and Andrea runs through the introductions, reaching for Sam’s hand when she’s finished. Sam grips it tightly, trying to convey all the love she feels, trying not to think what will happen in the next couple of minutes, how their lives are about to be decided. The consultant, Mr Singh, is the surgeon who treated Andrea. He has been there since Andrea’sdiagnosis, and his authoritative manner and avuncular, slightly distant charm are that of a man who has defined a thousand futures, and has had to explain the probable outcome of them all. He has an extravagant moustache, a shirt that is impeccably starched and a large ruby ring on his little finger that cuts into the flesh. Sam stares at his face, trying to deduce what he is about to say from the way he is leaning forward in his chair, carefully studying the scans in front of him.
‘And how have you been feeling in yourself?’ he says, closing the file and leaning back in his chair.
‘Not bad, bit tired,’ Andrea says. Sam sneaks a look at her. Andrea would say, ‘Not bad, bit tired,’ if she had had both legs bitten off by a shark.
‘Any new pain?’
Andrea shakes her head.
‘That’s good. That’s good.’
Just get on with it, Sam wills him silently. She cannot stop staring at his face. She thinks she may throw up from the tension.
He lowers his chins slightly. ‘Well, the scan appears to be clear. The surgery went well, as you know. And there appears to be no spread to the lymph nodes, which is what we were obviously concerned about.’
‘What are you saying?’ says Sam.
‘I do not want to be premature. But these are very good indicators. I think, with the combination of surgery and appropriate chemotherapy, we seem to have had an encouraging result.’
‘Encouraging?’ says Sam.
He gives her a kindly look. ‘This is not an absolute science. We do not like to speak of absolute outcomes. But the cancer appears to have been successfully removed, and there do not appear to be any further signs of it. We will continue tomonitor you to make sure, but this is as good a result as we could hope for at this point in time.’
Andrea’s voice is tentative. ‘So … it’s really gone?’
