Read Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale for Free Online Page B

you want something?”
    He is.
    “No. Yes. Oh,
whatever. I have to ring Lani. Tell her to look after things for a few days.” I
can’t make decisions about burgers.
    Brendan gets
out of the car and heads into the shop. He really is buying lunch. I thought,
for some strange reason, he was trying to make a joke. We both know he hates
fast food. Then again, he could be doing an ostrich. You know, sticking his
head in the sand? Hoping the lump in my breast will magically be gone when he
comes back with his chips and Fanta.
    I open my
bag and pull out my phone, dialling the shop.
    “Good
afternoon, Heather’s Hats and Bags .
Lani speaking.” Lani sounds cheery and it gives me a bit of a boost.
    “Lan. It’s
me.”
    “Soph. How’d
it go?”
    “I have…” My
voice cracks and I gulp, trying to form the words. Words that suddenly seem so
inadequate in describing the emotions rushing through me. “I have Breast Cancer.”
    Silence.
Then, “Shit.”
    “Double
shit, actually. Look, I’m not coming in for a couple of days. I need to get my
head around this. I need to figure out how to tell Rory and Mum and well,
everyone.   Plus, I’ve got to see
the specialist and find out what happens now.” The words are muffled. I can
hardly talk but I’m keeping it together. Now, I understand about people being
on autopilot when tragedy strikes. That’s me.
    “Oh Soph,
I’m so sorry.”
    I don’t
suppose there’s much else she can say. I mean, what do you say in a situation
like this without sounding patronising or fake?
    “Don’t worry
about the shop,” she continues. “I’ll look after everything. And Carly will be
in tomorrow for her usual Saturday shift. We’ll sort it. Do you want me to tell
her?”
    I pause for
a moment. “If you don’t mind.”
    “My
pleasure. Shit. I didn’t mean it like that. I have such verbal dementia sometimes.
You know what I meant. Oh shit. I’m sorry, Soph.”
    “Yeah. I
know. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days.”
    “Sure. Hugs.”
She hangs up the phone.
    I sit
staring out the window at the railing flanking walkway of the shop. The surface
looks fine but the white paint has begun to bubble. A bit like me. I look fine
on the surface. Hell. I feel fine, exactly the same, not sick at all. So how
can I have cancer? Shouldn’t I look ill or feel ill or something?
    Then I see
Brendan. He’s emerged from Red Rooster with a carrier bag stuffed with food in
one hand and two of the biggest drinks they serve in the other. The door is
swinging closed behind him and he stops to check his purchases. Clearly, at a
time like this, comfort eating is what’s going to get us both through. He looks
up and sees me. His face turns an even deathlier shade of white. He’s staring
at me as if I’m already dead and tears are pouring down his face.
    *****

 
    It’s now one
o’clock, Friday afternoon. Brendan and I have finished our chicken — well,
he’s finished his. I don’t have much of an appetite so I feed mine to Grover,
our dog — much to Brendan’s disgust and Grover’s delight. Now we’re
sitting staring at the TV under the guise of watching the news. Neither of us has
said a word for the past twenty minutes, not even when Grover stuck his head
inside the takeaway bag and began to lick the remains of the mayonnaise from the
burger cartons. It’s okay, I guess. We’re both trying to digest.
    Then, as if
he’s hit on a cure, Brendan leaps from his end of the couch. I haven’t seen him
this excited since he won third division in lotto. Which turned out to only be
worth forty-seven dollars.
    “That TV’s a
heap of shit. Let’s go shopping.”
    At a time
like this? I can hardly remember what day it is, let alone have the presence of
mind to be able to barter on the price of electrical goods. And Brendan will
never buy anything unless bargaining is involved. I think he inherited some
sort of flea market gene.
    He grabs me
by the hand, shoves my handbag into the other and drags