Beyond

Chapter One

Chapter OneRoscoe doesn’t like fireworks. As soon as November 1st rolls around, Mum tries all these different things to make Bonfire Night as painless as possible, like introducing him to dog relaxation pills and music and vile incense. None of it ever works, of course, so this year she decided to go to the vets and get some knock-out meds so we could all go out and enjoy the fireworks display without worrying about him stuck at home and barking like crazy.

While everyone else from school went together in groups and had roasted marshmallows round Gee Davies’ house afterwards, I had to stand with my mum and dad and ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at the sky for hours on end. I really don’t see the point in the stupid things anyway; they light up for about five seconds and then dissolve into darkness, as if they were never really there in the first place.

When Mum announced our Bonfire Night plans I didn’t know why, after seven years of staying in with a Chinese takeaway and a barking dog, we had to change our family tradition.

But then I remembered. It’s because it could be Jenna’s last Bonfire Night. She’s got ovarian cancer, stage 3b.

*

She told me nine weeks and three days ago at our end-of-summer BBQ.

‘Alex. You know I haven’t been feeling well…’ She reached across the table and held out her hand. I noticed her boyfriend, Kent, out of the corner of my eye, flipping a burger and watching our conversation carefully.

‘Yes,’ I answered shortly, tightening my hoodie strings. I’m not good with awkward conversations. My phone vibrated in my pocket and my hand instinctively went to it.

‘Alex.’ Hearing Jenna saying my name like that was weird. ‘The doctors figured out what’s wrong with me. It’s cancer.’

A message from Daisy flashed on my phone screen. I can’t remember what it said now. Everything was slow, a blur.

‘It’s ovarian cancer,’ Jenna went on, her voice catching. ‘It—um—makes me tired, and makes my stomach hurt. But it’s good that it’s been discovered. It means I can get some treatment and… hopefully feel better soon.’

Silence, while she waited for me to say something.

‘Do Mum and Dad know?’ I asked.

Jenna smiled, as though this was a good question to ask. ‘Yes.’

‘Does Kent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do your friends?’

‘Yes, Alex.’ She was still smiling. I hadn’t seen her smile that much in ages. It was uncomfortable. Like that whole situation.

*

After that, things just haven’t been the same. It’s like that BBQ was the last day I felt, well, like myself. My worries now aren’t about homework and girls and who’s playing football at the weekend, they’re about medication and appointments and statistics. It’s almost like I’m not fourteen-year-old Alex Duncan anymore. Instead, I’m a robot copy: I look the same, I talk the same. But I don’t feel the same. Nothing in life is the same when your sister has cancer.

‘Alex! Dinner’s ready!’

I close the book that I haven’t been reading and head downstairs. God knows what we’re eating tonight. Since the announcement, Mum’s been cooping herself up in the kitchen for hours every evening preparing the weirdest, most complicated dishes she comes across. She seems to be on autopilot for housework as a whole; I’ve never seen the house so spotless. Sometimes I don’t even want to sit down on the sofa in case I mess up the cushions.

‘Ah, Alex, will you hand me a tea towel?’

I pass her the nearest one and she wafts the steam about the kitchen before producing a tray of what looks like burnt muffins. I don’t know what to do. Ever since the BBQ I’ve felt awkward in my own skin, let alone in my own house. Yet here I am in the kitchen, watching my mum faffing around with pots and pans as if she can cook the cancer away. I think that’s what she’s convinced herself, anyway.

‘Soufflé to start tonight!’ she says cheerfully, plating things up. ‘Then we’ve got coq au vin.’ She looks at me expectantly as if I know or care what ‘coq au vin’ is, so I just force myself to smile at her in reply. I’ve learnt it’s best to keep my mouth shut about these things. Most things in general, actually.

‘Mmm, smells delicious, Cindy!’ Dad’s voice booms from the dining room with its usual forced cheer. Mum manages a smile.

‘Here, love, take your dad’s plate in too, will you?’ She gestures to two starter plates, each containing one burnt muffin-looking thing artfully placed next to some leaves.

‘Get me a beer, would you?’ Dad says instead of thanking me as I slide his plate in front of him. He already smells of alcohol and tobacco.

‘Beer doesn’t complement the food,’ Mum says with an air of annoyance as she enters the room, carrying her own plate and a bottle of sparkling water. I hate sparkling water.

‘Complement the food, my ass!’ Dad retorts, burping loudly.

Mum ignores him and sits in her usual seat. I slump reluctantly between them and stare down at my muffin starter. Upon closer inspection I discover it looks more like a misshapen scone.

‘JENNA!’ Dad bellows suddenly, making Mum jump slightly. She wrings her wrists, something she does when she’s nervous. Recently I’ve noticed she’s lost weight, especially around her face. She’s always been slim but her bones seem more defined now, her cheeks almost hollow. She’s never worked so she’s always taken care of herself: eating healthily, going to yoga and all that. A few years ago she even got on the running hype and did a marathon, quite a big one in London. She was healthier then. She looks older now.

‘Jenna’s not home,’ she says quietly after a moment, stabbing her fork into her starter. ‘She said she’d be back for six.’

Dad theatrically checks his watch. ‘Well, it’s five-past.’

Mum chews slowly and swallows before deciding not to answer. Under the table, I feel Roscoe plop himself down on top of my bare feet as he always does. He weighs a bloody tonne but in situations like this his soft warm fur is reassuring and familiar. I reach down and stroke him gently.

‘Don’t touch the dog while we’re eating,’ Mum snaps, glaring at me. I freeze. Since when has that been a rule?

‘What?’ Dad barks, his mouth full. ‘Don’t give him that crap, woman. It’s not like he’s feeding him or anything.’

I take a bite of my food. Tastes like cheap cheese.

‘I am not giving crap, George!’ Mum retorts, slamming her fork down even though she’s only had one bite. ‘Don’t speak to me like that at the dinner table.’

Dad snorts, ploughing through his food. ‘My dinner table. That I paid for.’

Uh-oh. I know he’s gone too far now. These stupid scraps have become worse and worse over the past few weeks, but they’ve never gone down this road before.

‘Your dinner table?’ Mum screams, scraping back her chair. It makes a horrible noise on the floor and I wince. ‘Your dinner table that I cook for hours every day to lay food on? That I keep clean? That I painted?’ She stands up properly now, her eyes wild. I’ve always thought that my mum doesn’t suit being angry. Probably because I never see her mad. Even after the announcement, even after the BBQ, she’s never been angry at anybody or anything. She’s just been cooking. And cooking. And cooking. I sometimes sort of wish I could just coop myself up in a room all day like she does. Maybe that’d make my anger go away.

‘Oh for God’s sake, sit down,’ Dad tells her, swallowing his last mouthful. ‘Jesus. You make out like everyone wants you to slave away in that stupid kitchen for hours and come up with these weird French dinners. That’s your coping mechanism, Cindy, not ours. Don’t swan around on your high horse making out—’

There’s a bang as the front door slams shut. Everyone freezes for a moment. Did Jenna just come in? She never has to listen to these stupid arguments like I do. When Jenna’s here, everything’s perfect. We’re a lovely, happy family.

‘Hi!’ Her voice trills from the hallway. Roscoe gives a sharp bark and runs—slowly—to the door to greet her. He’s a bulldog so he can’t move very fast at the best of times. Mum and Dad look at each other, then me: still sat in my seat with a barely-touched dinner. Mum looks apologetic. Dad looks like he doesn’t care. He never does.

‘I brought Kent over for dinner, hope that’s okay,’ Jenna says as she enters the room, followed by a drooling Roscoe, who immediately returns to his position on my feet, and a sheepish-looking Kent. I reach down and pat Roscoe again while Mum’s not looking.

‘Of course, of course!’ Mum beams, collecting the plates. ‘Hello Kent, sweetheart, pull up a chair, there’s plenty for everyone… You missed the soufflé though, I’m afraid.’

‘Hi Mr and Mrs Duncan,’ Kent pulls up a chair next to me. ‘Squirt.’ He ruffles my hair as Jenna follows Mum into the kitchen. I wish Dad would go too. His presence just seems extra-awkward now; Jenna and Kent must have heard what was going on when they came in. And although Kent’s been going out with Jenna for at least a year or two, him and Dad have never really clicked. They don’t hate each other, but Dad likes fishing, Kent likes cars. Dad likes beer, Kent doesn’t drink. They don’t really have any common ground.

‘How’s school?’ Kent asks me.

How’s school? What a complex question. I decide this is not the time or place to mention my failing grades or lack of friends, so instead go with the simple: ‘Fine thanks. How’s college?’

‘Meh, fine.’ Kent shrugs, pouring himself some water. ‘Just wanna break up for Christmas already, to be honest. This is the worst part of the year, don’t you think? November? Nothing-to-look-forward-to-November.’

I give an obligatory laugh but a quick glance at Dad tells me he’s not amused. Luckily, in come Mum and Jenna.

‘Here!’ Mum sets down the chicken with a flourish while Jenna places bowls of boiled potatoes and vegetables alongside it.

‘Smells amazing, Mrs D,’ Kent tells her approvingly as Jenna takes her seat opposite him.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ Mum gushes, her and Dad acting as though five minutes ago we were just having a perfectly civil dinner without them. As she dishes up the food, I catch Jenna’s eye. She looks tired, like Mum, and less put-together. She’s got a couple of new spots too, but I’ve learnt not to comment on those. Especially since I got my first one the other day, a huge one right in the middle of my forehead, and I wanted to bury myself in bed and hide until it went away. No one warns you of these stupid things you’ve got to deal with once you become a teenager, like spots and feelings.

And, for some of us, sisters getting cancer.

Jenna gives me a determined smile before breaking the silence. ‘So how did everyone find the fireworks yesterday?’

I glance over at Mum, who’s cutting a potato extremely slowly. ‘Oh, lovely!’ she says. ‘They were lovely. Wasn’t it nice to get out this year, Al?’

Ah. So, we’re not telling her that Dad and I came home early because of the angry call we received from the neighbours about Roscoe’s howling. I was wondering about that. ‘Yes,’ I reply.

Jenna shovels some of the coq-au-whatever into her mouth. ‘Great! Maybe this should become our yearly tradition, then? Venturing out?’

Everyone nods enthusiastically, telling her what a good idea it is. No one’s saying what they’re really thinking, though; she might not be here to ‘venture out’ next year. She might miss out on that particular tradition.