Callie is asleep when Steffi gets there. She puts the bags down softly, slips off her boots and lowers herself, very gently, on the bed next to Callie. Callie opens her eyes and smiles when she sees Steffi, and Steffi scooches down and lays her head on Callie’s shoulder as the tears start to drip again.
“Oh God,” she says after a few minutes, while Callie rubs her back. “As always, you’re the one looking after me. I’m supposed to be here to look after you.”
“Well, you’re not doing a very good job,” Callie says.
“I know.” Steffi smiles. “Call—” Steffi’s voice suddenly breaks. Damn. This isn’t what she had intended. “Oh God. I’m sorry.” She wipes her face. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“It’s okay, baby,” Callie says softly. “Of course you can cry. I can’t stop.”
“Oh Jesus.” Steffi sniffs. “You can’t go anywhere. What am I going to do without my big sister?”
“What am I going to do without my little sister?” Callie frowns. “Oh . . . wait. You’re not going anywhere. Oh God. I never expected this.”
They sit, both girls in silence, and Steffi’s tears continue to fall.
“Will you leave white feathers for me?” she whispers. They both smile as they remember Honor telling them that whenever they found a white feather it was a message from their guardian angels telling them they were looking after them.
“I’ll leave you enough for a million pillows.” They lapse into silence again, until Callie eventually asks, “Do you think there is a heaven?”
Steffi rolls onto her side to look Callie in the eye. “Well, I don’t think death is the end, you know? I once did a Ouija board and I got Uncle Edgar.”
“How did you know it was him?”
“Well, that was the weird thing. I asked him what his wife’s name was, just to test, and he said Lavinia.”
“So I guess it wasn’t him.”
“I just shrugged it off, but when I spoke to Dad I asked him, just out of curiosity, about Aunt Celia, and whether she’d ever been called anything else. He said she’d always been called Celia, but her actual christened name was Lavinia.”
“Noooo!” Callie’s eyes widen.
“I know! Isn’t that weird? And I never ever knew that, so now I totally believe in it. Will you talk to me through the Ouija board?”
“I’m not dead yet, baby.” Callie makes a face.
“I know. I’m just saying. White feathers, Ouija board, and if you could flick a light on or off or something, just to let me know you’re okay.”
“I’ll try, but the light thing is hard. Remember we asked Grandma Tollemache if she would do that?”
“Yes, but she never liked us,” Steffi says.
“Only because you were an exuberant and somewhat rambunctious child.” Callie laughs.
“She was an old bat.”
“Have you spoken to Dad?”
“No. I left him a message last night. I just said to give me a call, but he hasn’t rung back. I’ll try him again when I get home.”
“Thanks, Steff.”
“Oh Callie,” Steffi says. “Why is this happening to you? It’s not fair.”
“It only happens to five percent of cancer sufferers,” Callie says. “Look on the bright side. We always knew I was special. Honestly? I think I’m too good for this earth.” As always, she is using humor to deflect the pain.
“You know what, though?” she says, more seriously. “It’s a year, and that’s not counting whatever new treatments they’re coming up with. If I can make it to a year, hopefully they’ll have come up with something to treat this. I’m not ready to go. I’m telling you. Even though, really, I am too good for this earth.” She grins as Steffi pokes her, then they both look up as the door opens.
“Dad! What are you doing here?”
Ginger Almond Chicken
Ingredients
4 chicken breasts, boneless and skinless
2 teaspoons ground coriander
1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger
2 teaspoons white wine vinegar
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground pepper
4 teaspoons grape seed, groundnut or corn oil
4 large spring onions, trimmed
½ cup mango chutney
¼ cup chicken stock
1 teaspoon minced garlic
¼ cup fresh ginger, julienned
¼ cup sliced almonds, toasted
Small bunch chopped cilantro
Method
Slice the chicken crosswise into pieces ½-inch thick. Toss in a bowl with the coriander, ginger, vinegar, salt, pepper and 2 teaspoons of the oil. Marinate at room temperature for 15 minutes minimum.
Thinly slice the spring onions, separating the white and green parts.
In a small bowl stir together the chutney, stock and garlic.
Heat the remaining oil in a frying pan or wok over medium heat. Add the spring onion whites and ginger; stir-fry 30 seconds. Add the chicken and stir-fry until thoroughly cooked, which should take 4 to 6 minutes. Add the spring onion greens and chutney mix and cook, stirring, for 2 minutes.
Garnish with the almond and cilantro.
Chapter Twenty-five
Walter knew, as soon as he got home and heard Steffi’s voice telling him to call, that it wasn’t good. He knew, of course, that Callie was in the hospital, knew they were all waiting for results, which is why, as soon as he heard Steffi’s message, he jumped in his car and drove down from Maine.
He stopped halfway, at a little motel. Ordered himself a steak and a beer in the restaurant across the road, and fell asleep to the sound of laughter from the David Letterman show.
From the minute he learned Callie had been taken to the hospital he had thought about whether he should come down, but Honor was there, and he couldn’t imagine what it would be like, both of them being there at the same time. Reece had assured him it wasn’t necessary, there was nothing he could do, but something had told him last night that he had to put his hurt feelings aside and be there for his daughter.
He woke up in the morning, had a shower, folded his pajamas neatly and put them at the top of his suitcase, paid the bill and climbed back into his old Mercedes wagon, then drove down to Bedford, stopping at the odd coffee shop to fuel his journey.
He doesn’t like hospitals. He particularly doesn’t like this hospital, for it reminds him of Callie’s being ill before—the hours spent sitting around in the cancer center, waiting for the Neupogen shots to raise her white blood cell count, waiting for a chair to become free so she could have her chemo.
Hospitals make Walter aware of his own mortality. God knows he isn’t a young man anymore, and since his marriage to Hiromi he has felt older than ever. A fool. An old fool. That was how he felt, and how he often still feels, all these years on.
He approaches the thirteenth floor with trepidation, for what if Honor is there? What if Callie doesn’t want to see him? What if . . . oh God . . . what if Steffi called because she has died? But a kind nurse points to a door along the corridor and the relief at being directed to Callie’s room, at knowing she is still, quite clearly, alive, is immense.
“My little girl!” he croons, softening in a way he was never able to do when he was younger, but willing himself not to show his shock at seeing Callie look so . . . frail. There is nothing to her, and she looks up at him like a frightened little girl.
“Do you know?” Steffi asks quietly, after she has given him a huge hug.
“Know what?” His voice catches. “I came because I felt I was needed. What’s the story?”
Callie and Steffi catch each other’s eye and smile. This was their father’s catchphrase: What’s the story, morning glory?
“It’s not morning glory, that’s for sure,” Callie says. “Basically I have a disease that is called . . . lepto something. Steff ? Do you remember?”
“Nope. Leptocarcin something?”
“No. Something to do with menin
gitis or something. Oh God. I don’t know. I feel like my brain’s turned to mush.”
“So what is it, whatever this disease is? How do they treat it?”
“I need radiotherapy and then chemotherapy.”
There is a pause. “So . . . it’s cancer? Again.”
“Yes. Same cancer. Different place.”
“Where?” But he already knows it’s not good. Meningitis means brain, he thinks, fear settling in a clutch around his heart.
“It’s in the CFS.” Callie winces, trying to remember.
“The what?”
“The FCS? The SCF? I don’t know. It’s in the spinal fluid that goes around my brain and central nervous system. The CSF! That’s it.”
“So that’s why you’ve been having these terrible headaches?”
She nods.
“But they can treat it! That’s great news, isn’t it?”
Callie and Steffi exchange another glance. “It’s not . . . great. It’s a very rare disease. Mark has said that if the treatment is successful I have a year.”
“What? A year until what?” He cannot comprehend what she is saying.
“Well, a year before I, you know, go to the great big photography studio in the sky,” Callie says, attempting to joke.
“A year?” he repeats. Numb.
“Or six weeks.” She shrugs nonchalantly, and she and Steffi, for some bizarre reason, start to giggle. Hearing those words out loud seems so surreal, so utterly unfeasible that they cannot cry anymore, they just have to laugh.
Walter sits down in the armchair and wills himself to hold it together. I am her father, he tells himself. I will not let her see me cry. I will be strong for her. I will not weaken.
He doesn’t even hear the girls laughing, but he hears when Steffi’s laughter turns to sobs. He stands up and hugs both his little girls, and all the time he imagines himself as having nerves of steel.
I will be strong for them, he thinks, swallowing the lump away. I can do this.
Reece looks at the clock, counting down the hours until bedtime. How come weekends have never been this hard before? He supposes it is because he has had Callie with him, and because he has always tended to take the children out to do the fun stuff—the fairs, the festivals, the libraries, the parties—bringing them home for Callie to bathe, and feed, and take up to bed.
Now it is just him, and good Lord, this is hard work. When he came back from the hospital this morning he took them to a farmers’ market a couple of towns over, and they whined constantly that they were bored. At one point Jack sat down, cross-legged, in the middle of the parking lot and refused to walk anymore. When Reece went to pick him up, he started to scream.
But how can Reece lose patience with him, poor child? When Callie isn’t around, when this is exactly what the psychologist told them to expect? They will act out, she warned them, particularly the six-year-old, because he won’t understand why his mother isn’t there, and his fears, and anger, will come out in unexpected ways.
They have an appointment to take the children to see the psychologist on Tuesday, but until then what is he supposed to do? Eliza is defiant, and Jack is having tantrums. Neither of them behaves like this usually. They may be out of their comfort zone, but boy, is Reece ever out of his. Where’s the handbook that tells you how to do this?
He hears loud screaming from upstairs, and walks up wearily to find Eliza screaming at Jack.
“Get out my room! Get out! I hate you!”
“Eliza!” he says firmly. “Do not speak to your brother like that.”
“But he touched my American Girl doll,” she says, her voice bordering on hysteria. “He came in my room and touched my American Girl doll,” her voice is rising, “and it’s private! I hate him. I hate you, Jack!”
“Eliza, stop! We do not use the word hate in our family.”
“I don’t care. Aaaaargh!” She throws herself onto the bed, screaming into the pillow, while Jack smirks in the doorway.
“And that’s enough smiling from you, Jack,” Reece says. “Let’s go downstairs.”
“What about me?” Eliza raises a tear-stained face. “I’m coming downstairs too. That’s not fair.”
“No!” Jack’s face falls. “It’s boy time. Me and Daddy.”
“No!” Eliza shouts. “That’s not fair. Mommy’s not here so I don’t get to have any girl time. Daddy! Tell him! He can’t have boy time when Mommy’s not here.”
“Oh Jesus,” Reece mutters under his breath. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, doing his damnedest to keep his voice calm.
In the end, he bribes them. It may be freezing outside, but a trip to the ice-cream store has always worked wonders. They bring the dog with them, and pass Honor, on her way home from a grocery shop, as they leave.
“Who wants to see a movie?” he says, when they have finished their ice cream. “How about we drop Elizabeth home and go and see what’s on at the Playhouse?”
“Yay!” the kids shout happily in unison, an ice-cream high having long replaced their mutual animosity.
Honor is upstairs in the bath when she hears noises in the hallway. Probably Reece is home, she thinks, leaning her head back and wondering when, or if ever, this numbness will disappear. She has spent today just putting one foot in front of the other, trying to get through the long hours.
She has been through this before. This fear. This heaviness. With George. But she never expected to be going through it with her daughter. A year. A death sentence.
Climbing wearily out of the bath she wraps a toweling robe around her and goes downstairs to make some tea. She has never been a woman who naps during the day, but it is almost impossible for her to keep her eyes open, and a cup of tea, followed by a nap, suddenly seems like the best idea in the world.
The kettle is on when she hears a man clear his throat, and she almost jumps out of her skin. She turns slowly, standing stock-still when she sees her ex-husband standing awkwardly in the doorway of the kitchen.
“Walter?” she says, confused.
“Hello, Honor.” Oh yes. It’s definitely Walter.
“Oh . . . goodness. I wasn’t expecting . . . I . . .” She looks down at herself, in a robe, barefooted, and she clutches the robe tightly. “Clearly, I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“Hey, Mom!” Steffi comes barreling into the room, trying to suppress her excitement that her parents are in the same room for only the second or third time in almost twenty years. “Dad drove hours to get here. Callie said he should take the other spare room.”
“Of course,” Honor says, taking a deep breath and regrouping. She walks over to Walter and looks at him closely. “It’s good that you’re here.”
Walter breathes in, and finds himself overwhelmed by the fact that Honor still smells exactly the same. He would know her smell anywhere. And it is only now that he feels himself start to crack.
I will be strong. I will not weaken.
He nods, and backs away ever so slightly. Honor puts her arms down. She was going to give him a hug, to thank him for coming, for being the type of father who comes when their daughters need help, and to show him her support. Poor Walter, he still looks as stiff as ever.
“Come on, Dad. I’ll help you with your stuff. Mom? Will you make us some tea?”
No matter how old the children, Honor thinks, they still want their parents to get back together. For years after the divorce, when she asked what they wished for Christmas, they always said that they wanted her and Dad to marry each other again. Even when they were both married to other people, and even though they adored George beyond anything imaginable. There will never come a day, she realizes, when they will not want the two people who created them to come together again.
Look at Steffi now, with her parents finally—finally—back in the same room. She is practically skipping up the stairs, looking from her father to her mother with delight in her eyes.
Honor gathers the cups and the teabags, and smiles to herself. Walter lo
oks very good. She is surprised, but perhaps she should not be. As is so often the case, Walter has gotten even better looking with age. His hair is now white, and it suits him. He looks very like his father—an elegant, good-looking patrician man who has somehow, despite his awkwardness in the doorway, grown into his skin.
But he is still uncomfortable. Poor Walter. She feels now, as she always did, a wave of sympathy. He is a good man. She knew it then and knows it now, but he is a man always crippled by his background. So stiff. So intent on reserve. Never able to relax and just be.
She pours the tea, sets out a plate of cookies. For a moment she is tempted to take her cup and go upstairs, as she had planned, and take a nap. Leave Walter and Steffi to drink their tea by themselves. She is not tired anymore. Adrenaline is now pumping through her system, and she suspects a nap is out of the question. Sitting at the table, she pours some milk into her tea, and opens a magazine.
Walter unpacks his suitcase, stacking his clothes neatly in the chest of drawers: underwear on the left, socks on the right, undershirts below and sweaters below that. It is the way he has always organized his chests of drawers, and the way he always will.
He hangs his trousers, making sure all the creases are in the right place, and his shirts next to them, lining up his shoes at the bottom.
His razor and shaving brush go in the bathroom, with the small pot of shaving soap. He has always refused, on principle, to succumb to shaving foam in a can. He still loves the daily ritual of swirling a wet brush in the small pot and working up a lather.
Finally, he can’t delay it anymore. He has to go back downstairs. Although . . . it wasn’t so bad. He has been dreading seeing Honor for all these years, yet seeing her down there was oddly . . . comforting. She looked exactly the same. Obviously older, grayer, more tired, but smelling her for those few seconds, seeing that look in her eyes, swept him back, and instead of feeling the resentment and anger he has felt for so many years, he felt . . . on familiar ground. Perhaps that was the best way to put it.