‘Trust me, man. I’m holding out. But if they serve me another meal of liquidised cat food, I might have to give in. At least at the care home you can nick a meal from the person next to you if you don’t like the smell of yours. In a room on your own here it’s a bit like solitary in jail or, you know, self-isolating.’
‘Have you been in solitary in jail?’ Keeley asked with a wry grin. ‘Because if you have you’ve neglected to tell me a thing about it.’
‘I’ve got a TV, man! I watch all the shows about all the things that aren’t this place!’ Erica began to cough, her breaths raspy and mucus-filled. Keeley put a hand on her back and gently rubbed until the coughing subsided and Erica’s frail body eased back onto the pillows.
‘That wasn’t the fucking cancer,’ Erica insisted. ‘That was the fucking caramel.’
Keeley smiled. ‘How are you feeling today? Apart from being short-changed on meals?’
‘Dying, aren’t I?’ Erica shrugged. ‘The church came in today. They all looked at me like they were sizing me up for my coffin.’
‘Erica, I’m sure they didn’t.’
‘They didn’t look at me like I was Erica,’ she answered. ‘They looked at me like I was just a worn-out body waiting to fade out the exit door. They looked at me like the “me” was gone already.’
Keeley reached for her hand, but Erica drew hers away. In some ways she knew exactly how Erica felt. Some days it felt like some of the original Keeley had disappeared along with Bea. Like the broken parts of her that had been supposed to heal, mend or be replaced, hadn’t quite grown new skin, or weren’t working properly.
‘Don’t give me none of that sympathy handholding bollocks, man. You know I hate that. Don’t be as bad as them.’
‘Sorry,’ Keeley replied.
‘You’re the only one that doesn’t treat me like a corpse round here. Even back when we first met, you would come in with your stories about your shitty life and, I still don’t know if you’re making them up for my benefit or not, but they made me laugh and they made me feel… and when you’re stuck in a bed all day every day that’s about the best you can hope for.’
‘Who bought you the chocolates?’
‘Someone called Mary bought them for Miss Phipps, but she died last night so…’
The circle of life. It carried on. One person’s gift benefitting another. And didn’t Keeley know all about that.
‘Want one?’ Erica asked, holding out something that looked like a mini-Milky Way. It was hard to tell without a wrapper.
Keeley shook her head. She shouldn’t. She had eaten three advent chocolates when Rach eventually managed to get most of the dye off her palms. She had already decided to opt for something with spring greens for dinner later and go home via the gym.
‘No offence, but you look like you’re the one who’s dying,’ Erica told her. ‘I thought you were meant to come in here and cheer people up.’
‘You’re right,’ Keeley agreed.
‘Well, tell your face,’ Erica replied. ‘You’re living! You might have made a bad hair decision, but you have time to change it. Me, I’m stuck with me until the Grim Reaper turns up.’
‘I could get someone in to style your hair if that’s what you want,’ Keeley said. There was access to essentials as well as treats here. The hospice worked with all sorts of companies to try and make last wishes come true. Last week Mr Davidson was reunited with a vulture he used to take care of in his days working at the bird conservancy. With a wingspan of almost two metres, it had been quite a challenge getting Little Buddy into Mr Davidson’s room when the animal got completely excited by the biscuits on the tea-trolley and decided to unleash and flap. But the tears in the old man’s eyes and the tremble of his lips at their reunion had moved everyone who had witnessed it. Who knew that vultures liked to be tickled under the beak?
‘I don’t want my hair done by Rach! I’m not going to the grave looking like someone painted it with creosote.’
‘You’re exaggerating,’ Keeley said, putting her hand to her hair. ‘It doesn’t look that bad.’ Rach had promised her it didn’t.
‘No,’ Erica said sighing. ‘You’re right. It’s alright. I’m just being a bitch. Dying woman’s free pass to say what she thinks without worrying about the consequences. Who cares if anyone’s at my funeral anyway? I’ll be in a box… well, hopefully one of those rattan baskets if I can afford one of them.’
‘You don’t need to think about that yet,’ Keeley said, swallowing a lump in her throat. But they did. Both of them knew what was coming. Keeley was going to lose someone else close to her yet again. Someone who reminded her so much of her little sister. How was any of it fair?
‘Well, what should I think about then?’ Erica asked, big eyes studying Keeley so intently. ‘Because from where I’m lying there’s only so much interest you can pay to the crap surroundings. Like that terrible painting over there.’
Keeley’s gaze went to the oil painting of two poodles on their hind legs dancing with each other. One of them had a beard like Charles I. It was pretty terrible. ‘Well,’ she said, turning back to Erica, ‘what would you like to look at while you’re here?’ Perhaps she could get Erica one of the rooms with a large window a little bit earlier. Those rooms were usually reserved for patients at the very bitter end of their journey. They all had a fantastic view over parkland and, even now, at the end of November, when the trees were bare of leaves, the sight of the boughs bright and sparkling with frost was something to behold.
‘One of the Jonas Brothers? I’m not fussy which one… actually, Nick… no, Joe… nah, definitely Nick.’
Keeley laughed. It wouldn’t be that hard to arrange a poster… or a cardboard cut-out… or a body pillow. She would have a look on Amazon later.
‘Nothing Christmassy though,’ Erica continued, now looking a little wistful. ‘I can cope with the chocolates, but the decorations are mocking me.’ She sighed. ‘Because, chances are, I won’t be here for turkey this year. And that’s just cruel, man. I love turkey.’
‘Turkey and the Jonas Brothers… Nick Jonas,’ Keeley said, counting on her fingers. ‘I’m sure Christmas can come a little early.’
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ Erica asked, smoothing her blanket out with her skinny fingers and picking up a tiny fragment of chocolate.
‘Oh,’ Keeley began. ‘Well, I’ll be at home on Christmas Day. My mum will be cooking a feast I won’t be allowed too much of and Dad will probably have my share of the things I shouldn’t eat. And, after we’ve eaten all the turkey dinner – sorry – we’ll all eat low-fat cheese, pickles and chocolates we don’t need and then probably fall asleep in front of the wood burner that my dad has stoked so much it’s made the living room the temperature of the inside of a volcano.’
Erica snorted. ‘Love it, man.’ She sniffed. ‘Apart from the not-eating-what-you-want bit. They don’t go into that in films where the characters have had transplants, do they?’