he gave her his full attention.
‘Sorry. You wanted to talk to me.’ ‘Yes.’ Molly took a breath. ‘I’ve had these symptoms for a while now.’
‘Symptoms?
‘Tremors. A few other things.’
‘You haven’t mentioned anything before now.’ Sam frowned.
‘I know.’ Molly immediately felt guilty. She should have mentioned something before, shouldn’t she? If she had, her illness would have been drip-fed as opposed to being a massive bombshell. ‘I … I didn’t think anything serious was going on.’
Sam sat forward. ‘It’s serious then?’
‘Ummm … yes. It is.’ Molly chewed her lip. ‘I have …’ She faltered. She didn’t want to say it out loud. Saying it out loud made it real. And reality was a scary place at the moment.
‘Molly.’ Sam came and sat next to her. ‘What’s going on? What do you have?’
Molly took his hand. ‘I have early-onset Parkinson’s.’
Sam stared at her. ‘What?’
Molly said it again.
‘I heard you. I mean how … you’re … I know you said early onset but Parkinson’s … it’s …’
‘An old person’s illness, right?’ Molly shook her head. ‘Wrong.’
‘But …’ Sam stopped. ‘I just can’t understand it. You’re so healthy! You’re fit, you look after yourself. How could this have happened?’
‘Well, it’s not anything I could have prevented.’ Absurdly, Molly felt the need to defend herself. ‘I do look after myself. It’s just one of those things.’
Sam got to his feet. ‘Well, it’s ridiculous. I mean, it’s awful.’ He began to pace. ‘So. Tell me about it. What does this mean?’
Molly told him about it. A condensed version. A slightly more glamorous effort than it could have been. Which was her way of drip-feeding. Molly strongly felt that immediately blasting Sam with all the details wasn’t the way to go. There was time enough for that.
A few seconds later, Molly felt that her approach was justified.
Sam stopped pacing and sat down suddenly. ‘God, Molly. That’s grim. I mean, grim for you. For us. What a curve ball. Ok.’ His mind was clearly racing. ‘So what do we do about it?’
‘Do?’
‘Yes. There must be some course of action. We need to do something here. There must be drug trials, something we can do to make things better, to get you well again.’
Molly stared at Sam. ‘I mean … I’ll never be well again, Sam. Not completely. This is progressive.’
‘But we can manage it, right? We can slow things down.’
‘I don’t know.’ Molly was starting to get a headache. ‘We need to look into it.’
‘We do.’ Sam sat down at his computer again and started typing rapidly. ‘We need to look this up and get to grips with it.’
‘Yes.’ Molly felt oddly surreal. She had dreaded telling Sam about her diagnosis. She had put it off for a fortnight because she had been trying to get her head around it. And Sam’s reaction was sending her all over the place again. Mainly because he was being so practical.
Suddenly, Sam caught her off-guard. He turned in his chair, walked over to her and gathered her up in his arms.
‘Molly,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Molly burst into tears. Clutching Sam’s shoulder, she sobbed hard. This was what she needed right now. A cuddle. Some sympathy. Sam was so incredibly practical and that was a great skill. A wonderful skill. But nothing beat a hug.
‘But we’re in this together,’ Sam said, pulling back and wiping her tears away. ‘You and me. We’ll get through this. Together.’
Molly nodded. ‘I know. Thank you. I’m so sorry.’
‘Never be sorry.’ Sam kissed her forehead. ‘We can beat anything, you and me.’ He returned to his desk and started typing again.
Molly lay back against the sofa. Whatever she and Sam did, they weren’t ever going to ‘beat’ her Parkinson’s. Surely he knew that?
Maybe the drip-feed approach had been the wrong way to go after all.
August 1997
‘Edison. I’ve said it’s fine! Stop worrying about me.’
Ed watched his mother as she moved around their tiny kitchen. She seemed normal. Together. She wore a summer dress printed with flowers. Her dark hair was held up by a scarf – it clashed but it was a cheery touch, one that showed some thought for her appearance. On closer inspection though, the dress had a tear in the seam under her armpit and the scarf was splattered with glossy white marks, as if a candle had accidentally been spilt all over it. But still.
Florrie Sutherland. A statuesque woman on days like today. Calm, composed and in control. On days like these, Ed could almost imagine bringing his friends home to meet her, but still, he wouldn’t dream of it. Anything could happen. Literally anything.
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ Florrie reassured him, placing a cup of tea in front of him. ‘I have Michael now. He looks after me. I’m on top of the world right now.’
Ed gamely drank the tea, even though he only ever drank coffee. But the offer of any kind of drink was unheard of around here, so he was grateful, in principle at least. He tried to conceal a grimace. It was laden with sugar and tepid. The way his father used to drink it. Ed wasn’t sure what that meant exactly.
‘I want you to have this chance,’ Florrie insisted, reaching out to stroke a lock of hair away from Ed’s eyes. It wasn’t so much a gesture of tenderness; it smacked of irritability. Florrie frowned. ‘I’m not a child, Ed. I can take care of myself.’
Ed nodded. ‘Right. Of course.’ It really wasn’t worth him disagreeing. Not when she was actually being amenable about the whole thing. He sat back in his chair and inspected the kitchen. It was small and dingy. Even when it was scrupulously clean (which only ever happened when he was around), it looked grubby. Formica worktops in a shade of grey, garish tiles from the seventies in clashing oranges and yellows. Basic cupboards and shelves fronted with off-white MDF, all set off by a lino floor that stuck to the bottom of every shoe as though smeared with year-old jam.
Out of all the rooms in the small house they shared on the outskirts of town, far away from the likes of Boyd and Ed’s school friends, the kitchen depressed him the most. It seemed to epitomise everything difficult about his life.
‘So. Are
