your tumour, I mean. You haven’t spoken about it; do you know that? Every time I bring it up, we always seem to end up talking about how I feel, or you change the subject.’
Lizzie closed her eyes as a sadness engulfed her. It was as much a sadness for Samantha’s pain as her own. ‘I know,’ Lizzie said, trying to find the words, ‘but when I think about what will happen at the end of this trip, I feel like I’m being crushed. It’s like Jaddi said, we have to live in the here and now. Make every moment together count. In fact, maybe I should wake up sleeping beauty over there.’ Lizzie grinned, wishing it wasn’t just part of the truth she was sharing with Samantha … wishing the plane would hurry up and land so they could start the here and now.
Samantha narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re doing it again, changing the subject on me. You don’t have to pretend,’ she said, her voice a whisper.
‘I’m not pretending.’ The tingling across her left foot intensified momentarily before ceasing, as if her foot had simply disconnected itself from her ankle.
Samantha continued to stare into Lizzie’s eyes, like a teacher waiting for the truth. What did that word even mean? Truth. A flashback of the dressing room hit Lizzie’s thoughts. The suffocating walls, Samantha’s face crumbling before her. How close had Lizzie come to telling her the truth then? Too close. Samantha’s world was black and white, right and wrong, good and bad. Samantha never saw the grey areas, to her they didn’t exist, but Lizzie’s life now existed only in the grey areas.
How different would things have been if Samantha had been home the night Lizzie had returned from the hospital, standing behind the rickety ironing board watching back-to-back reruns of Sex in the City, ironing her own clothes and any Lizzie and Jaddi added to the pile, instead of staying with David? Would they still be sitting on this aeroplane? Lizzie doubted it.
‘My left foot is numb.’ Lizzie shrugged, that much was true at least.
‘What?’ Samantha’s eyes dropped to Lizzie’s footwell. ‘Do you want to get up and move around? How long has it been numb for?’
‘A few minutes. I had pins and needles for a while and now I can’t feel anything.’ Lizzie glanced towards Jaddi and lowered her voice. ‘I don’t think I can walk on it. What if I don’t get any feeling back? I’ll have ruined the trip for all of us.’
Saying the words aloud caused a panic to grip Lizzie. They hadn’t even landed in a foreign country yet, she hadn’t so much as tasted the freedom she’d craved her entire life, and already she could see it ending before it had even begun. The freedom from the waiting, from the treatment, from all the times her parents and her doctors had shaken their heads, creased their foreheads as if it was them in pain, and not her, and said no.
All of a sudden Lizzie could hear her own nine-yearold self, sitting at the kitchen table with her homework splayed out in front of her, and asking the question she’d already known the answer too, but asking it anyway. ‘Tracey Sanders has invited me to her birthday party,’ she’d said, her eyes focused on the page of her book as if an invitation to a party was an everyday occurrence for her, as if the girls and boys in her class hadn’t stared at the tufts of hair growing back on her head and whispered too loudly, Lizzie Appleton is contagious, despite the special assembly the entire school had had about her condition. So they’d known, they’d all known. But Tracey Sanders’s mum had told Tracey that she’d had to invite the whole class, and that had meant Lizzie too.
‘Oh, that was nice of her,’ her mum had replied, turning a page in the magazine she’d been reading.
‘Can I go?’ Lizzie had looked up then, their eyes meeting. Lizzie hadn’t been able to help it. Hope had taken hold of her insides, propelling her forwards. She could be normal, she’d thought. She could show them all how normal she could be.
‘Umm, I’m not sure, honey. Maybe. It depends when it is. You know, we’re back in London the week after next for the follow-up with Dr Habibi.’
A smile had spread across Lizzie’s face. Glee. That was the word for it. Her mum had said exactly what Lizzie had expected her to say. The week after next, yes, they were busy, they were in London for another scan, but this weekend, the weekend of Tracey Sanders’s party, they were free. ‘That’s OK,’ Lizzie had replied, the hope bursting inside of her like the fizz of sherbet in flying saucers. ‘Tracey’s party is on Saturday.’
‘But that’s only two days away.’ Her mum had frowned, closing the magazine and pushing it to one side.
‘I forgot.’ Lizzie had shrugged, wishing her cheeks didn’t feel so hot. ‘So can I go? It’s at half past ten. We’re free, I checked the calendar.’ Lizzie had leaned forward. Please say yes, please, please, please, she’d thought, but didn’t say, because begging would make it harder for her mum, and whilst she had desperately, desperately wanted to go to Tracey Sanders’s tenth birthday party, she hadn’t wanted to upset her mum. ‘It’s at the leisure centre. It’s a swimming-pool party.’ There, she’d said it. The final piece of information had sat on the table between them.
Her mum’s face had said it all. The frown contorting, the smile disappearing. She’d started shaking her head before the words had left her mouth, pulverising Lizzie’s hope and causing a pain to harden in her throat. Lizzie had tried to swallow, tried to hold back the tears, but they were already falling onto her cheeks.
‘Oh, honey, you know you can’t go swimming.’ Her mum had stood up, shuffling around the table until she’d enveloped Lizzie in a hug that had smelt of kitchen soap and flour. ‘Dr Habibi said no swimming, remember, honey? It’s your immune system; it’s just not up for swimming pools. All those germs in the water.’
‘But it’s chlorinated.’ She’d sniffed, burying her head inside the fold of her mum’s jumper. ‘I’ll keep my mouth shut.’
‘They’ll get in anyway. Dr Habibi explained that to us. I’m sorry, honey. How about I call Tracey’s mum and see if you can come after the swimming bit? They’ll probably be going to McDonald’s. You can go for that.’
‘Pizza Hut,’ Lizzie had murmured, wishing she hadn’t mentioned the party at all. Wishing she could take it back so she wouldn’t have to go to the restaurant and see all of her classmates with their wet hair and shining faces. Them and her. Not normal at all, but different, very different.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to have my head shaved too?’
Fresh tears brimmed in Lizzie’s eyes, but she’d smiled. ‘The only thing worse than being a bald girl is having a mum who’s bald too.’ Lizzie had tightened her hold on her mum. ‘Pizza Hut will be fun,’ she’d lied.
‘Lizzie?’ Samantha’s voice broke through her thoughts. ‘Should I call one of the air hostesses?’ Samantha reached her hand up to the low ceiling and the row of square buttons. ‘They might have something that you can take.’
‘No, don’t.’ Lizzie grabbed Samantha’s hand, pulling it down. ‘Just give it a few minutes and see if it passes.’ Lizzie wiggled her toes again. Only her right foot responded. ‘Let’s change the subject. Maybe it’s like watching the toaster. It will take longer if we fixate on it. Tell me, what do you make of the cameraman?’
‘He seems OK,’ Samantha said. ‘Nice-looking in a rugged, unwashed sort of way. He’s not said much, but that’s not a bad thing. I’d be more worried if he was all chatty and pally with us, like most men are when they catch sight of Jaddi – as if being friends with us will help their chances. At least if he’s quiet we might be able to forget about the camera, and it won’t get in the way of our time together.’
‘I don’t know,’ Lizzie said, lowering her voice. ‘Quiet is one thing, rude is another. Did you see the way he demanded we all wear our microphones twenty-four seven? He’s travelling the world and getting paid, did he really need to be so rude to us?’
Just then a beep sounded from the row of seats in front of them. Lizzie glanced up as Ben’s face appeared.