Okay. So. Now What?

Jan 20

by Julie Martis

Okay, stand with your feet hip-width apart. There’s no reason for slouching.

Open the cabinet. It’s not snooping if it’s for her own good. Blister pads and Immodium – so she’s partying to the extent that she’s lost control of her innards or she’s so scared she’s literally –

Your phone pings.

Ben: Trying not to Google.

Anyway, when exactly did Mum become old? Did it descend upon her the first time she bought Elnett hairspray, or do you have to be old to buy it?

Empty the can like you’re suffocating a wasp.

Now that you think about it, Gran’s hair was like a bag of candyfloss. Maybe we all become –

Ping.

Ben: I’m Googling.

Not gonna lie, you’ve definitely inherited a few habits. Start at your nose and swirl outwards. Clang. Cotton pad in the bin. Slosh. The toner stings. Blot.

Stand and cry like you’re six years old and you just dropped a teddy at the claw machine.

You’re always hungover on Boxing Day and you always have a headache. It’s from too much red wine, and the lights as brash as chickenpox, and how Mum’s voice gets higher and higher as the day goes on like she’s trying to snap the string of a violin, the way they do in old cartoons.

Yesterday, Ben gave you a stocking filled with lip balms and strips of Tramadol. Mum wore a snowman jumper, with googly eyes that danced maniacally when she moved, making it seem like the snowman was having some kind of intermittent breakdown. Thank fuck for the Tram-a-lam-a-ding-dongs. He’s a good brother.

Growing up, you’d always play Christmas bingo.

You can reheat that, you know. Tick

You can take it back if you don’t like it. Tick.

The potatoes aren’t right this year. Tick

Due to some misplaced reverence for the festive period, Mum waited till the morning of the 26th to tell you what she’d found out on the afternoon of the 21st. She held onto it for five days. When she sat down she said she didn’t want Christmas to always be the day when you found out. You couldn’t speak but Ben said -

Ping.

Ben: Are you ever coming out, or do I need to send Search and Rescue?

Refocus. One, two, three, shoulders back. You need to breathe deeply.

You don’t know what stage four means. Well, you do know, roughly, but Mum didn’t say whether or not there was any treatment she could have or whether – actually, now that you think about it, they might be able just to gouge the whole thing out, like a twisted scoop of ice cream – plop, out it goes, you’re cancer free, you don’t know for sure because she hasn’t said -