Page 100 of Power Moves
The page is thin, light as air, but to me, it’s Gollum’s ring. Heavier than anything I can handle. More powerful than life itself.
‘This,’ I say numbly, unfolding the page and handing it to Dad. My voice is so low it’s barely audible. ‘I’m sorry.’
Dad takes the page carefully and reads it. After a moment, he looks up. ‘I’m confused,’ he says slowly.
I shake my head again. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ The reel is playing on a loop in my mind: my beautiful mother in the passenger seat of my rubbish-strewn car; the manila folder falling from her grasp as I took the corner too quickly driving away from the hospital; those hands that never dropped anything, that were always alert, always reflexively poised for the next move; how they dropped the folder and the white pages went flying through the air, landing among chip packets and uni textbooks, dirty sneakers and sweaty sports bras, coat hangers and half-empty water bottles; how she quickly gathered up those A4 sheets of paper and jumped out of my filthy car as I dropped her at the station. ‘Don’t worry about me, strong girl,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’
‘It’s my fault,’ I whisper, in a ghost voice that’s barely my own. ‘She could have got a different treatment.’
I point to the text under the faded grey letterhead. Even in the dimly lit room, the words are clear as day.I recommend Mrs Hatton visits Dr Winkleposs to discuss potential immunotherapy options relating to the results of the ultrasound (enclosed).But she didn’t see Dr Winkleposs and she never started immunotherapy, becauseIhad the referral letter. It was scrunched up in my car, which was so messy I didn’t find the letter for six months. And by then, she’d decided to do chemo, which hadn’t helped one bit. If only she’d started the immunotherapy earlier …
Dad’s hand is shaking slightly, the paper fluttering as if there’s a draught even though this room has been sealed tight for six years. We’re breathing air from a time capsule.
Maxy cranes his head to read the letter over Dad’s shoulder.
‘What does it say?’ Jessie asks.
‘It’s a referral to see another doctor about immunotherapy, which she could have done instead of chemo.’ I sigh. I’m not even sad anymore, I’m just exhausted. I want to delete myself from the world. Just not exist for a moment. I don’t have the energy to pretend anymore; I don’t have the energy to hide. ‘Mum got the referral from the hospital but she dropped it in my car and I never realised it was in there. My car was …’
‘A shitshow,’ supplies Maxy. His voice is weighted with understanding. He’s already connected the dots: he knows it’s my fault. I was too messy, too disorganised, too careless to protect my own mother.
‘Ahhh,’ says Jessie, her eyes filling with tears as her mind cycles through the what-ifs that have plagued me for the last six years.
‘No,’ says Dad suddenly. ‘Kids, don’t do this to yourselves. Mill, it’s not your fault. Maxy, Jessie, it’s not worth thinking we could have changed this. No one could have changed this.’ He grabs us desperately and pulls us to his chest, as though he needs to catch us before we float away like astronauts in space, untethered from our rocket.
Maxy stifles a sad laugh as our heads knock together, and Jessie’s arm loops around my waist. We’re holding each other at weird angles. My face is pressed against the crusty wool of Dad’s jumper. One of my hands is on Maxy’s back, grabbing the fabric of his flannelette shirt. Jessie’s hair dangles in my face, catching on my eyelashes.
‘It was crap luck,’ Dad says heavily. ‘And you had nothing to do with it, Mill.’ He pulls away slightly so he can lookme in the eye. ‘There’s no way on earth she forgot about that referral.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He smiles sadly and smooths my hair, and then starts to do the one thing I never thought he would do in this situation. He laughs. It starts small and throaty, deepening the dimples in his cheeks, and then his mouth opens and a hearty chortling sound rings out. His whole chest is shaking and his eyes are bright and glimmering.
‘Dad!’ Jessie cries. ‘Are you insane?!’
‘Stubborn, stubborn idiot,’ Dad gasps.
‘Dad!’ I almost-yell, looking to Maxy and Jessie for back-up. ‘What the hell?’
‘The name,’ says Dad, thrusting the page towards us. His breaths are shallow from his laughter. ‘Look at the name.’
Maxy snatches the page and reads. ‘Mrs Hatton. What’s so interesting about that?’
‘The doctor’s name,’ laughs Dad. ‘I can guarantee you she didn’t forget about this referral, Mill.’ He rests his hand on the wingback chair to steady himself. ‘She definitely knew about it, but your mother was as stubborn as a donkey’s arse.’
I peer over Maxy’s shoulder. ‘Dr Winkleposs.’
‘Ohhhh,’ gasps Jessie slowly.
‘Yes,’ nods Dad.
‘What?’ cries Maxy, as my mouth releases a sudden screech of understanding.
‘Winkipop?!’
‘The one and only!’ laughs Dad.
‘Mum’s nemesis? The hotshot doctor with the killer serve?’
