Mirjam Dikken

Uncontrollable Growth

First published in 2021, in the Anthology of Short StoriesTwo months ago, I sat on the same bench. One-hundred meters from the sterile building, where white coats tattletale on how your body is betraying you.
The birds’ chirping pierces through my eardrums like nails. My eyes water, from the sun reflecting so brightly on the white houses across the river. The moist, overwhelming scent of recently cut grass flows through my nose into my mouth, leaving a mouldy taste.
Before I would hardly have noticed. So why does today deliver this raw, simultaneous attack on all my senses? No wonder newborn babies cry.Two months and a day ago, the day before The Diagnosis, I visited my daughter Rachel. I walked into the kitchen while she was snapping at her husband. Rick just sat there, hands folded on the kitchen table, head bent forward. When Rachel was finished, she rolled her eyes, lips pursed into a thin line.
I looked at her six-months protruding belly. “I would have loved to give you a new baby room. But you know how tight money is for me. Ask your father. He can afford it.”
Rachel snorted. “I shouldn’t have to ask.” She spat: “Men! They’ll never get it”, and sashayed into the living room.
Rick stared out of the window, with the forlorn look Jason had had in the years before our divorce.
When I passed him to follow Rachel, I leaned over and hissed: “Don’t you dare leave her! You have no idea how hard it is for a mother to raise a child on her own!”
Rick sighed. “You didn’t give me a fair chance, did you? You successfully imprinted your hate of men on her.”The first two days after my diagnosis, I thoroughly cleaned that immense house I’d clung on to ten years ago. When we prepared, my lawyer had the nerve to ask me: “Isn’t the house a little big for just you and your daughter?” My glare silenced her. I didn’t want this change. I wanted so desperately to hold on to everything…
Then the negotiations started. Which the clueless lawyers nudged us to not think of as ‘negotiations’. Rather ‘talks to reach a mutual understanding’.
I’d slammed my fist on the table. “A mutual understanding?? If he wants out, he can show me some understanding! By giving me what I want!”
Through gritted teeth, his pinstripe hissed to Jason: “It’s her choice to hang on to the house. You don’t have to pay the utilities and maintenance for her.”
In that recent, unfamiliar flat tone, a tired-looking Jason responded: “I don’t care what it costs me to be happy again.”
Rage had infused every cell of my body. Was he so unhappy he wanted to pay unreasonable money to get rid of me? Well, then he was going to pay for a long time!After spending a couple of days scrubbing every nook and cranny of a house which embraced a family life lost long ago, metastasizing anger drove me to Jason. He needed to know the diagnosis was his fault. Ten years ago, he’d wanted another life while ruining mine. The stress surely gave life to the tumour.
I slammed the car door and waited on his lawn. I never entered his house. Instead, I yelled at him outside, to alert his neighbours to the asshole they lived next-door to.
Suddenly, I floated up, looking down.
Would dying be like this?
The woman on the lawn with clenched fists, eyes spitting fire, mouth curving downwards, could still be pretty for her age. If it wasn’t for that malignant resentment, spiteful look, and the dramatic gestures of someone pretending to be a victim for a long time.
To the right, a neighbour peered through the curtains, shaking her head. Her moving mouth providing commentary to someone invisible inside.
Then Jason dragged himself out of his front door, shoulders hunched, eyes wary. Bracing for our stale routine.
A whiff of lavender shocked me back into my body. My muscles softened. Had he always had these lovely purple plants in his front garden? I’d stood here yelling on and off for a decade, and I didn’t even know.
I looked at Jason.
He looked back, unsure, now that I hadn’t begun screaming insults.
“I’m… so sorry.” I walked away, turning when I reached my car: “Why don’t you ask Rachel what she’d like for the new baby room. I think she’d really appreciate that.”
When I drove away, Jason still stood on his porch, arms crossed, mouth open.Next, I put the house up for sale. When the realtor realised I didn’t have another place to go to yet, she attempted to enthuse me for a comfy apartment in a new building along the lake. Normally, I would have made her feel sorry for the suggestion. Even just weeks ago, I would have unburdened myself onto her. Detailing my tough life. Ensuring she’d never forget the name of who was to be held responsible.
This time, I just shook my head and smiled.
It wasn’t her fault I didn’t need a place to live.Since then, I rigorously cleared out the house where I simmered for too long. Despite the relentless growing tumour, I felt lighter every day.I almost cancelled the tests today. What was the point?
Waiting for the same white coat previously delivering the verdict of ‘three months, maybe four’, I noticed the assistants glancing at me, whispering.
Soon, I would be reduced to just that, words on peoples’ lips.
The white coat invited me in, flustered. Apologising profusely. Mumbling about a mix-up.So here I am. Sitting on a bench, senses on high alert in a new-born appreciation. Two-hundred meters from the sterile building, where my outlook on life transformed once again.
No tumour. No anger. No big house to grudge the past. No more yelling sessions on Jason’s lawn.
The chance to get to know my granddaughter.
I dial the realtor. “Could you send me the info on the apartments at the lake please?”

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