Until The Smoke Clears

Chapter 1

“Cancer,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

            I grip Mum’s hand for comfort and amiability but it slips out as she raises it to her mouth. “What?”

He sighs, “I’m sorry Mrs Ashfire. It’s there, its happening. We can’t get rid of it.”

            She trembles, “What . . . well . . . I . . .”

            “I know this will come across to you as a bit of a shock-”

            “You got that right pal!” she sneers. He blinks back in surprise behind his ultra-clear glasses.

            “I know, and I’m awfully sorry. I can’t even imagine what this must be like for you and your daughter.” He looks at me meaningfully.

I can’t move. I can feel the churning in my stomach rise. The warm spring day has suddenly turned dark and claustrophobic. Sweat emerges from every gland I have like a tap being forced on and off.

“So, are you just going to sit here and watch us suffer? Get me under the treatment doc’, before it’s too late.”

“It already is,” he mumbles, tapping his fingers slowly together.

Mums mouth opens then closes. She looks around the room at the signs and posters of cells and organs. She looks at the warning sign promoting cigarettes.

“Lung cancer,” he says. “You’ve had it for almost two years now. I’m surprised you never came earlier about it.”

Once he says that sentence, it all makes sense. The bad health, the coughing, the blood Mum has endured with over the past years. She never got it checked though. She hates hospitals.

“Look, you listen here smart boy. I only came here because my stupid daughter who knows I hate hospitals rang you fellas up because I passed out. So what? That’s all I needed, a discharge. Oh, but no, you have to search my whole body like I’m some bloody side-show attraction just so I can feel worse about myself!” she barks.

“No! Not at-“

“C’mon Libby,” she hauls me up by the wrist and stomps angrily out the door, ignoring Dr. Smith’s calls and pleads.

As soon as we emerge from the smell of hospitality and disinfectant, Mum pulls out a cigarette, flicking the evil orange lighter. She raises it to her lips and lights the cigarette, drawing the sickening smoke in deeply. She closes her mouth for a while, as if to conserve the smoke inside her for as long as she can. This always panics me. What if she never breathes the smoke out again and suffocates and dies and then…

A divergent air blows through the wind, poisoning it as it smacks my face.

I run after Mum through the car park as she continues to breathe in and breathe out the contaminating smoke. I trip after her over the humps in the road.

She stops, takes one last, long breath and studs out the paper onto a red Holden. I bite my lip uneasily.

“Hurry up Libby!” her husky voice orders after she coughs violently. She makes a hawking, sickening noise, her thyroid dancing around her neck and spits on the road. She sees my face, “What are you looking at?” she growls and keeps walking. I trail behind her, and as I do, my eyes are locked on the small blood patch of spit on the side of the road.