Page 29 of The Mother-in-Law

‘Which friends?’

I said nothing, trying to make my expression defiant, as though I had friends she didn’t know about. But I didn’t. The only friends I had that weren’t overseas or at university lived with their parents. I had nowhere to go. My plan was a giant bluff and my mother was calling it.

She placed a cold hand on top of mine. ‘Come on now, Diana. You’re nearly there. Have your baby, come home and make better choices next time.’ She kissed my forehead and the matter, as far as she was concerned, was laid to rest.

I wanted to say:This is my last chance. I need you, Mum. Instead I said nothing.

And that night, I ran.

14

LUCY

The present . . .

The funeral director’s name is Pearl. She’s a kindly woman in her mid-fifties with a puff of over-dyed chestnut hair and the patience of a kindergarten teacher. Thank goodness for her because, as it turns out, there’s a lot to do after someone dies. When Tom died, Diana organised everything and I never appreciated how heroic that was until now. How does one, through his or her grief, meet with funeral directors and select caskets, figure out readings and choose flowers, all the while supporting others and managing the minutia of their lives at the same time? I guess I’m going to find out.

We’ve been at the funeral home for several hours, selecting things, but my mind is elsewhere. Apparently Jones and Housseini also paid a visit to Nettie and Patrick yesterday, and told them about the cancer, or lack of it. Nettie and Patrick agree it all must be some sort of misunderstanding, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that something isn’t right. Why didn’t Dr Paisley refer Diana to an oncologist? Why aren’t there any records of mammograms or ultrasounds? Why would she lie about it? I keep turning the pieces of information over and over and they just get more muddled up. But Jones told Nettie the autopsy would be done and the body released in a couple of days, so at least we’ll have answers soon.

‘What about the wake?’ Pearl asks us. ‘Will it be at your mother’s house?’

Nettie shudders. ‘No. Let’s do it somewhere else.’

‘I agree,’ Ollie says. ‘Knowing Mum died there . . . it’s different now.’

‘How about a local bar or restaurant?’ Pearl suggests and we all mutter our agreement.

‘Now, for the service. Some people who have nondenominational services like to have a few church hymns. Do you think Diana would—’

‘No,’ Ollie and Nettie say in unison.

‘Mum wasn’t really into hymns,’ Ollie explains.

‘No hymns,’ Pearl says, making a note in her paperwork. ‘That’s fine.’

While I hadn’t thought about it much in the past, Diana’s harsh rejection of her Catholic upbringing is curious to me now. I find myself wanting to ask her about it . . . and I’m hit by a jarring sadness that I can’t.

‘All right,’ Pearl says. ‘Moving on.’

For the most part, Nettie and I do the choosing. Ollie and Patrick sit there like a couple of teenagers, nodding and grunting and looking at their phones. Around lunchtime, Pearl suggests Nettie and I pop down to the corner store for sandwiches while Ollie and Patrick select photos for the slide show.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Nettie says.

‘It’s important that you eat,’ Pearl says. She’s entirely firm and also entirely serene. ‘And grab something for the men while you’re at it.’

Outside, we shuffle along the street. A train track runs along the side of the road and the noise of a passing train takes the edge off the silence for thirty seconds or so. Then it’s gone, and there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing. Nettie lifts a hand to scratch her nose and her shirt sleeve rides up revealing a thick purple ring around her left wrist.

‘What happened to your wrist?’ I ask.

Her gaze flicks to me, then back to the footpath. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Nettie. Come on.’

‘Let’s just get the sandwiches, shall we?’ she says quietly.

We walk a few more paces.

‘Ihatethis,’ I explode, suddenly unable to keep it in any longer. ‘Diana would hate it too. You know she would.’