On Honeymoon With Death

18

However happy we all think we are on high days and holidays, there’s no door that we can step through to leave reality on the other side. (Well, actually, there is, but they don’t sell return tickets.) We were reminded of that eight and a half hours into the new year when the phone rang by the side of our bed.

‘If that’s my sister. .’ I heard Prim muttering drowsily as I floated back up to the surface. ‘Bitch. We agreed that I would call her tonight.’

She picked up the phone, and answered with a slightly threatening ‘Yes?’

About three seconds later her face changed. Her free hand went to her mouth in an instinctive gesture, and she frowned more deeply than I’d ever seen. She didn’t say much, just four more ‘yes’s, each one quieter than the one before. Finally she nodded, and murmured, ‘I’ll call you back when I’ve done that.’

I stared at her, waiting, as she replaced the receiver. ‘That was Miles,’ she told me; her voice was steady, but I could tell she was having to work at keeping it that way. ‘Mum’s in hospital, in Los Angeles. She perforated a stomach ulcer last night. They’ve operated and that’s no longer critical but, during surgery, they spotted some other lesions. They removed them and sent them for biopsy; the hospital’s path lab is closed because of the holiday, so it’ll be a couple of days before they can run tests.

‘But it could be malignant. Oz, Mum could have cancer.’ I was sitting up by this time; I took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. I’ve seen Prim in a couple of crises, and in each one she was unbelievably strong. But this was different; this was her mother she was talking about. I drew her to me, feeling warm wet tears on my shoulder, feeling the tremors of her quiet sobbing. I knew what she was thinking. I’ve been there myself with my own mother, and there was no happy ending then, for sure.

It didn’t last long, only a minute or so, then she was back in control. She looked up at me, embarrassed as she dried her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘What did the surgeon say?’ I asked her.

‘According to Miles, he said there was a chance that the growths will turn out to be benign, but he wasn’t hopeful. That’s exactly what I’d expect from an American surgeon. Say or do nothing that you might be sued over later.’

I blew out a big sigh as I thought about what had happened. ‘Elanore Phillips, of all people,’ I murmured. ‘I can’t believe it. She’s always seemed unsinkable to me.’

Prim chuckled, throatily. ‘Like a galleon in full sail, flying battle flags. That’s how I’ve always seen her, at her best.’

‘I didn’t know she had an ulcer,’ I said.

‘Neither did she. But it doesn’t come as any surprise to me; she isn’t exactly a nouvelle cuisine chef.’

‘So how’s SuperDave?’

‘Dad’s okay. He’s with her at the hospital. She’s still in intensive care, but that’s normal, post-op.’

‘And Dawn?’

From the way she glanced at me; I knew the answer to that one. Prim’s sister is a lovely, incredibly talented girl, but no film director, not even her husband, will ever cast her as a vampire slayer.

‘Miles is worried about her. . worried about the baby, really, I suppose, although he’d never say that. He asked me if I’ll go over there to be with her.’

‘Of course you will. I’m coming too.’

Prim shook her head. ‘No, you’re not. You can’t run out on the boys and your dad.’

‘But Dave might need some support as well,’ I protested.

‘Miles is his son-in-law too. He’s there already. Anyway, my father’s a lot tougher than he looks.’

She bounced out of bed and stood, looking down at me. ‘So am I, for that matter. I can take care of Dawn and him, if necessary. Not that it will be; it’s entirely possible that these growths are just simple polyps, and that all Mum will have to cope with is recovery from her surgery.’

‘Yeah, sure, but what if. .?’

She cut me off. ‘In that unlikely event, they’ll throw the full arsenal of anti-cancer weaponry at her. They’ll scan her for metastases, then treat, or take preventive measures as appropriate. Even if she has got stomach cancer, the survival rates are better than in most other types.

‘You really want to help me?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Right. Get on the Internet, find the next flight from Barcelona to Los Angeles and book me on it.’

It’s astonishing what you can do these days. By the time Prim came downstairs in her towelling robe, her hair still wet from the shower, I had booked her on a flight from Barcelona to Charles de Gaulle, then on to LAX, first class on the transcontinental leg.

‘Well,’ she demanded. ‘Haven’t you even logged on yet?’

‘And off. You pick up your tickets from the Air France desk at Barcelona, then check in straightaway.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Your flight leaves in just under seven hours. That gives you two hours to get ready, and me two hours to waken up so I can drive you there.’

‘Where?’ asked Jonathan from the staircase. He was bright-eyed; looking at him, I made a mental note to drink Pepsi at our next party.

I told him where we were going. ‘Can I come?’ he asked.

‘No. You and Colin have to stay here and help your Granddad.’

‘Help him do what?’

‘I haven’t a bloody clue, but from the last I saw of him, whatever he plans to do today, he’s going to need help.’