Карин Фоссум - Hell Fire

“But why?” he asked, horrified. “Are you ill? Will you get a wig?”

“I’m not going to get a wig, Eddie. It’s the medicine I’m taking that makes my hair fall out.”

Finally Eddie understood. He gasped once, took a deep breath, then two, three more. His voice, which was usually so loud, was thin and reedy.

“Right, but it will grow back, won’t it?” he asked nervously. “I’ve heard that it does.”

She shook her head. “No, that’s not going to happen.”

“But why not? You’ll get better again.” He tried to stay the panic that was rising.

“Cancer?” he said slowly.

“Yes,” she said, “cancer. It started in the pancreas and has now spread everywhere.”

“Seventy percent of people who get cancer survive,” he said doggedly. “That’s what I read on the Internet.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know. But I don’t belong to that seventy percent. I’m going to die, Eddie, and quite soon.”

“No,” he said feebly.

“Yes.”

“The doctors often make mistakes,” Eddie suggested. “And you’re strong. I know you’re strong. You’re like an ox.” He punched the table.

“But the cancer is stronger. You’re going to have to live on your own, Eddie, and you’ll need help. You will have to accept all the help that’s offered. People will come to the door, and you must cooperate. You know, home health aides and people like that. People from the council.”

He got up without turning off the computer and just stood there in the middle of the room.

“I’ve got some savings,” Mass continued. “But from now on, you’re going to have to get by on your disability. And that means you can’t live on Coke and cinnamon rolls. You’re going to have to make yourself proper food or you’ll get ill. Are you listening to me?”

“You’re wrong,” he said, desperate. “People get it wrong all the time.”

Mass struggled to get up. The pain in her bones was intense, and she knew it would only get worse. That it would spread to every single cell. She couldn’t bear to look her son in the eye. Everything felt so heavy, her heart, her head.

She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge; she had thought of frying some eggs and bacon for them both. Eddie followed her in his tartan slippers. He sat down and put his hands on the kitchen table. He swallowed hard. Every time a thought started to form in his head, it was interrupted by another — just like when a bonfire burns at night and the sparks fly up into the sky, a shower that will only last as long as there are flames. His mother dead and buried. Strangers coming to the door, people demanding impossible things of him: that he should get out and meet people, that he should try to find a supported workplace. He thought about all the things his mother had done for him over the years, all the things that he had taken utterly for granted. She had cleaned and tidied and made food. She had done the shopping and kept things in order and changed the beds. She had made sure there was toilet paper and had taken the car in to be serviced. She had paid the bills and done the tax returns, about which he knew zero. She had kept a check on his spending.

“Do you have to go to the hospital?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes, soon. I’ve thought about it long and hard, because at first I wanted to stay in my own bed. But you can’t look after me here; it would be too much for you.”

“But I can do the shopping and things like that,” he said, “and I can go to the pharmacy for you. And you can tell me how to do things from the bed, and I’m sure I’d manage.”

She went over and stroked his cheek. “I would do anything in the world if it meant you didn’t have to go through this,” she told him. “You are my greatest joy and have been my greatest comfort, especially after Anders left. But now you have to be stronger than ever before. You simply have to manage. You just have to take one thing at a time, and you will have to get people to help you. You’ll have to arrange the funeral and all that. Don’t use Jølstad, they’re too expensive.”

Eddie couldn’t speak anymore. His father had left him and now his mother was about to do the same. “To be honest, Mom,” he whispered, “I don’t think it’s going to work.”

“Don’t say that,” she said in anguish. “That’s not what I need to hear when I’m dying. You went to Copenhagen on your own. Just remember that.”

“Maybe there’s something after,” he said, trying to be hopeful. “We don’t know for certain.”

“That’s one thing I know for sure,” she said firmly. “I will not live on, neither here nor there. Only in your thoughts,” she added, to soften it. “You will have to manage alone.”

They ate their eggs and bacon in silence. Eddie dipped his bread into the egg yolk, his feet fidgeting under the table. After they’d eaten, he went back to the computer and started to search. He got lots of hits. He sat for a long time reading about pancreatic cancer and how it spread to the bones and marrow. The symptoms were described in detail, and he recognized them. Some people could be operated on but not everyone. And often it went unnoticed until it was too late. The last thing he read terrified him. Among doctors, this form of cancer was known as “The Silent Killer.”

He got up, put on some clothes, and then opened the door to his mother’s room. He asked if she wanted a yogurt for breakfast. She could have strawberry or melon and he could take the top off and find a spoon. She said no. She managed to get herself out of bed and tottered across the floor. He could see her sick body through the fabric of her nightie. The evening before, they had packed some things into a bag that was now standing ready by the door. While his mother was in the bathroom getting dressed, he sat in a chair and waited. He thought about trying to find a doctor other than Bromann — someone who was better. They could go to China, for example, because he’d heard that the Chinese knew everything about medicine. Then he pulled himself together. Don’t be a fool, Eddie. China’s too far away and too expensive. She wouldn’t be able to cope with it because she’s too weak.

Eventually she emerged from the bathroom and they went out to the car. She didn’t even look back at the house; her eyes were trained on the road ahead.

An hour later, Eddie said goodbye. He found the car in the parking lot and drove carefully out of the gates. He stopped by the mailbox when he got home to pick up the papers. Ansgar appeared with Kennedy at his heels.

“Been out driving, Eddie?” he asked, bursting with curiosity.

“Yes,” was Eddie’s curt reply.

“Yes,” Ansgar continued. “A lot to be getting on with now that summer’s around the corner.”

He already had his mail, but he stood studying Eddie.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen your mother,” he said. “Is everything all right? She’s not ill, is she?”

Eddie glared at Ansgar — he had always hated him. His dark, nearly black eyes and that loathsome grin. His skin had a yellow tinge. Eddie knew that he’d done service in Afghanistan and was ridiculously proud of it.

“Yes,” he said. “Mom is ill.”

“Oh dear,” Ansgar stammered. “Is she in the hospital?”

“Yes, I took her there this morning.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” he responded, looking somber.

Eddie clutched the newspaper in his hand. “It’s very serious. She’s dying.”

For once, Ansgar said nothing. He picked Kennedy up and looked at Eddie, dumbfounded. Then he turned and hurried back to the house to tell his wife the shocking news.

Eddie let himself in. He put the mail down on the kitchen table and walked into the living room. The house was horribly silent. He thought he could hear a low ominous humming, as if some great machine had started up. There was gurgling in the pipes, banging at the windows, and heavy doors slammed shut, never to be opened again.