Rick White

I’m in a hospital waiting room, squinting against the violent iridescence of a thirty-thousand watt strip-light which illuminates this purgatory and sears itself into my hungover brain. The walls are a Hellish beige and there’s the usual accoutrements — uncomfortable plastic chairs, out of date magazines, slumping elderly people and a strange sort of play area designed to amuse small children, arranged there by people who presumably have never had (or indeed been) a child.

I approach the reception desk.

‘Name?’ The stoically unwelcoming receptionist asks, without actually deigning to look up.

‘David Bainbridge,’ I sigh, before adding, forthrightly, as if it’s an achievement to be proud of, ‘I’ve got an appointment.’

The receptionist looks up at this, probably wondering, as I am now, whether anyone has ever strolled into the oncology department purely on a random impulse.

‘Ah yes, Mr Bainbridge. Your appointment was actually at ten-fifteen so we’ll have to see if the consultant is prepared to see you.’

It is ten twenty-two am. I have been here more times than I care to count and have never had to wait less than thirty minutes past my appointment time but clearly, I am holding them up.

‘I see. And how long will I have to wait for a decision?’

‘Just take a seat.’

‘Very well.’

I sit down. There’s a woman opposite me, early forties probably, quite attractive. A child, presumably her progeny, is sitting on the floor at her feet, playing with an abacus.

She glances furtively at me with a pained expression. It looks as though there’s something terrible happening to her — death, most likely — but the look on her face, it’s something else.

‘How old?’ I ask, snatching at any question I can in order to validate the awkward fact our eyes have just met.

‘Sorry?’ she replies, immediately on high alert to the slightly creepy man who’s just started interrogating her in the oncology waiting room.

‘I mean the kid,’ I say, trying (failing) to put her at ease. ‘The little chap. They’re lovely at that age aren’t they?’ (what age?) ‘Then they grow up of course.’

She winces slightly, visibly recoils and turns away to ensure she can’t accidentally make eye contact again. The expression on her face is more than pain. It’s the look of someone trapped beneath an unbearable burden. I recognise it — it’s guilt. What’s she got to feel bad about? Why do we all feel the need to apologise for our own mortality? Like we haven’t done enough, tried hard enough. Like we haven’t earned the right to bring the curtain down without giving the ungrateful crowd an encore.

None of this is doing anything to mitigate the effects of my hangover.

Last night was a family dinner, in as much as the term ‘family’ applies to our situation. Me, my ex-wife Helen, an interloper and pendulous ball-bag of a man who she calls her husband, Iain. And my son and daughter, who have recently transitioned from actively despising me into a rather cold state of indifference.

I had planned on introducing them to Linda but there’s just never a good time and last night would’ve been out of the question.

Halfway through the meal, just as I was wondering why on earth I’d been summoned to a vegan restaurant on a Tuesday night, Rebecca my eldest, announces she’s getting married. Her fiancé Richard, an irksome little toad who has never shown me even a modicum of respect was not present at the meal which made me think this news was not, in fact, new. This was all just for show — something they’d tacked on so at least they could say they’d done more than just send me a text. They’d long since toasted with champagne and nibbles. Ex-wife Helen and super step-dad Iain, headstrong daughter Rebecca and wayward stoner son Jamie, all congregated around the centre island in a bright and warm kitchen which used to be mine.          

I told them all I was ‘delighted’ and politely enquired as to where Richard was and why he couldn’t face me, to which I received no response. The only thing going through my mind was how am I ever going to introduce them to Linda now?

So I just decided to get drunk. I have a horrible memory of berating the poor, bewildered waiter for not knowing what a martini was. Then snapping at him to just ‘bring me a glass of the coldest white wine you have, as long as it’s not Chardonnay.’ I tried to order a steak, proclaiming that since all normal restaurants offer at least one vegan option, they were in fact discriminating against me as a carnivore. My memory is hazy and I think it all ended badly. I have a very bad feeling I left a voicemail on Helen’s phone…but what?

‘Mr Bainbridge?’ the receptionist’s voice slaps me out of my profitless reverie. ‘Doctor Qureshi will see you now.’

‘How kind,’ I say, standing up and striding from the waiting room, weighing up the idea of ruffling the kid’s hair as I walk by but deciding against it.

Inside Doctor Qureshi’s office he greets me with his warmly sombre expression and extends to me his soft, dry, brown hand. His fingernails are always rather disturbingly long, although meticulously clean and trimmed.

‘Mr Bainbridge, please take a seat. How are you?’

‘Fine I suppose.’

‘Any nausea, dizziness, shortness of breath since we last met?’

‘Yes, although I think that’s just the cheap Chardonnay which was forced on me last night.’

Jokes. Always the jokes.

‘I see. Well, look I’ll come straight to the point. We’ve had the results back and the tumour…’

‘Call her Linda.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘She has a name. Please address her as Linda.’

He looks worried. I’m sure if he had some sort of emergency button under his desk with which to summon a gang of battle-hardened orderlies armed with sedatives and a straitjacket, then he would be discreetly hammering it right now.

‘Ok… Linda has slightly increased in size. It… she is still what we would describe as a peripheral carcinoma and there don’t appear to be any metastases present. I would strongly recommend that we discuss treatment options with a view to proceeding without delay.’

I consider this for a second. It’s basically the news I was expecting, and I’m prepared for it. All of this has gone on long enough. I’ve been convinced for a long time that the Universe will let me know when it’s time to check out. I’m amazed it’s taken this long.

‘Let me tell you a story doctor.’  His eyes plead with me not to, but I continue nevertheless.

‘When I was about ten years old, my elder brother, Timothy told me about a man who lived in our town who died in a car crash. I don’t recall any of the specific details except that when the crash happened he had his dog in the car with him. I think when Timothy told me the story it was a Jack Russell or something but anyway, the crash was a bad one. So bad in fact that both man and dog were completely pulverised by the impact. When the ambulance came to literally scrape them off the road they had no way of telling which bits were the driver and which were the Jack Russell, so they just shoved them all into the same bag together. There was nothing else they could do. So the story goes that the driver came back as a ghost — half man and half dog. Some sort of grotesque amalgamation of both creatures all bloody and torn up from the crash. Ribcage exposed, guts all hanging out, body and head of a man but with doggy facial features so — big ears, tufts of hair and whiskers, a wet nose and of course a big slobbery dog-tongue and sharp, pointed teeth. Timothy told me to watch out because when I was asleep at night Dog-Face Malone was going to creep into my room and wake me up by licking and slavering all over my face. Then he’d start to bite and scratch at me, trying to tear me up just like him. It was absolutely terrifying to be honest but you see where I’m going with this?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing is ever really created or destroyed doctor. Matter can only ever be transferred from one form to another. The law of conservation of mass. Nothing is permanent you see. Not you, not me and not anything in this world. Everything is transient. We’re all just random collections of atoms floating around in space and sooner or later we all end up as a load of dog and human parts all smooshed up together in a big bag.’

‘Mr Bainbridge it’s perfectly normal in your position to feel overwhelmed. If you like I can refer you to…’

‘No thanks doctor. I appreciate it, I really do, but that’s it for me.’

‘May I suggest you take some time to think about your treatment options?’

‘You can think about your options all you like. I’m off. Maybe that doesn’t fit with your perfectly ordered view of the Universe. Beads all neatly aligned on the abacus but I embrace the chaos because baby, I’m an anarchist.’

And with that I head for the door of the good doctor’s office. Straight out into the void.

‘Mr Bainbridge?’ I stop at the door but I don’t turn around.

‘What is it doctor?’

‘You left your coat on the back of the chair.’

‘Oh. Thanks I do need that, it’s rather chilly outside, unseasonably so for this time of year.’ I pick it up then walk back out into the (rather chilly) void.

*************

Later that night I’ve had a bit to drink, rather a lot actually, truth be told. I thought I knew exactly where I was going with this. I thought Linda and I had forged a tacit agreement, that our destinies were intrinsically linked and we would walk, hand-in-hand, into the sunset. Now it’s more like I’m wandering around in the gloaming, lost and alone. Trapped in the woods. 

It’s this wedding business that’s thrown me. A man is supposed to walk his daughter down the aisle. Supposedly it’s what every father dreams of. Trouble is, it’s her moment, not mine.

When Helen and I split, I still thought of myself as a young man. I believed there was a second act for me to play. A part of me even felt I was owed it — for all the dreary Saturdays spent at the park when we used to be out to lunch, sipping cold white wine. For all the hours I had to work to pay for nurseries, private schools, riding lessons, football boots. Every Sunday morning I stood on the sidelines watching football matches with Jamie an unused substitute. Trying to encourage him, even though he reminded me so viscerally of myself. I hated having to watch him fail.

I moved away, started new relationships, all doomed of course — women closer to Rebecca’s age than mine. Every fucking cliché in the book. I embarrassed my children, and looking back I can see why they chose not to be around me.

It’s difficult to relate to infants, and teenagers are pre-disposed to be mortified by anything their parents say or do. So you always imagine there will come a time, after their adolescence and before your demise, when everything falls into place. When you finally ‘get’ one another. This should be that time, but it feels so far away. I have no idea who my children are. Their formative years passed in the blink of an eye and now they’re bitter, cynical, fucked-up adults with problems of their own to deal with. And worse — while this was all happening, I got old.

‘David?’ That’s Helen. She’s come round and is now in the process of tidying my kitchen with the silent intensity of a trained assassin. In her mind there is no problem which cannot be remedied by having a nice, tidy kitchen. Typical Helen.

‘What?’ I slur back in the same manner as one of our own taciturn teenagers.

‘I said, do you want tea?’

‘No. I want to be left alone to die.’

‘Well you obviously don’t or you wouldn’t have left me that stupid message would you?’

The cry for help. I knew I was drunk the other night but this was bad, even for me. Apparently I’d left Helen a voicemail saying I was going to end it all. Telling her to tell the kids I was sorry, the full works.

‘I meant it.’

‘Well you clearly didn’t because it’s a day later and here you still are, very much alive and complaining as usual.’

‘Well it’s a good job because you would’ve been too late to stop me wouldn’t you?’

‘I’m not good at checking voicemails David. I was in bed when you left it and today I’ve been playing tennis.’

I told Helen all about Linda of course, drunkenly blurted it all out and what does she do? Tidy up and make tea. I could be swinging from a noose or lying in a bathtub full of my own blood and she’d still be rearranging my crockery in the most efficient and space-saving manner. And yet I need her here. She’s the only way I can relate to the real world. She’s my anchor, my fulcrum, always has been. I know how selfish that is and I realise the message was my way of gaslighting her into coming round tonight, trying to make her feel sorry for me. It clearly hasn’t worked in that regard but at least she’s here. Because the truth is I’ve got no one else.

‘Now look,’ Helen begins in her perfectly matter-of-fact way. ‘About this tumour…’

‘Linda.’

‘Whatever David, have you had a second opinion? Have you even seen a proper consultant?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘Doctor Monty.’

‘Doctor Monty?

‘Monty Ober.’

‘David that’s a French cookery term.’

‘You’re a French cookery term.’

‘Monte au beurre as you very well know, means to thicken with butter.’

‘You’re thick and with butter.’ I giggle to myself at that one and spill Malbec down my shirt.

‘Oh for goodness sake David, come along.’

Helen gets a wet cloth from the sink and starts dabbing me with it. She’s so close to me and I think about how she doesn’t seem to have aged. She’s the same as always, slightly bossier perhaps, if that’s even possible, but no different. Maybe that’s because we’ve aged together. Travelling in perfect parallel through time as the Universe changes everything around us, except us.

We’re aligned.

She looks up at me with those big, grey eyes and I can’t help but notice the smooth curvature of her neck. Her eyes meet mine and she holds my gaze for just a second…

‘Stop leering at me David you’re making me uncomfortable. Now look. You and I are going to go and see a proper specialist and discuss your treatment options. We’re going to get through this sensibly.’

‘You can do what you like but I’m not going. Baby, I’m an anarchist.’

‘No you’re not. You’re a retired financial consultant.’

‘I’m on a leave of absence.’

‘An enforced leave of absence, as I understand it.’

‘Whatever, as usual you have to be right. It makes no difference. We’re all just going to end up as atoms all squashed together in a bag like Dog-Face Malone anyway.’

‘What on earth are you babbling about?’

‘Nothing is ever really created or destroyed. We’re all just bits of random matter waiting to be reformed into something else so nothing means anything.’

‘If you say so.’

‘It’s the law of the conversation of maths. I think.’

‘Not quite, but not far off. And shall I tell you why you know that? You listened to Jamie going on about it at great length at Rebecca’s birthday party a couple of years ago, for which you arrived late and behaved terribly but you were there and you obviously do remember it so drop the hopeless nihilist act and start taking some responsibility.’

‘How dare you.’ Although she is right. ‘Clearly you make a point of listening intently to everything and remembering everything and being Mrs-fucking-perfect all the time.’

‘I didn’t say I was interested David, the only reason he wouldn’t shut up about it was because he was so incredibly stoned and thought we hadn’t noticed.’

I do recall the night. The little shit was rambling on about physics and some Carl Sagan passage he’d read, stuffing his face with breadsticks and taramasalata. Eyes bloodshot to heck, reeking of ganja. I don’t remember how I felt in that moment — whether I was angry or indifferent, or ashamed or embarrassed. When I think of it now, it just seems really, really funny. I start to laugh, Helen laughs with me.

‘He was terrible at hiding it.’

‘He still is. Now stop wallowing and start facing up to reality please, starting tomorrow, agreed?’

‘Yes I suppose so, you are always right, that is of course the foundation upon which our marriage is built.’

‘We are no longer married.’

‘Oh we’ll always be married. It’s like being Wimbledon champion, they can’t take it away from you. You’re forever a Wimbledon champion.’

‘Strangely enough David, that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’

---

About Rick White

Rick White is a fiction writer from Manchester, UK whose work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, Best British and Irish Flash Fiction and the Pushcart Prize. Rick’s debut short story collection, ‘Talking to Ghosts at Parties’ was released in 2022, however, due to the unending cruelty of the universe/economic climate, the book is now in need of a new publisher. Rick is currently working on a new collection and novel, both of which he hopes to finish before he expires. 

To read more of Rick’s work head to www.ricketywhite.com or follow @ricketywhite on Instagram and X.