“Because it is 2015.” I frowned deeply. “It’s March, tomorrow is St Patrick’s Day. Or at least it was, that’s the last thing I remember. Fifteen days have passed by since then.”
Mum began to cry as she shook her head. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Instead, she gripped my hand tighter.
“No, honey,” she managed to say.
“No?” I swallowed. “What do you mean no?”
“It’s
I couldn’t comprehend what she was saying, and I didn’t even attempt to.
“No.” I squeezed her hand tightly as I shook my head. “I’m twenty-four. It’s the sixteenth of March, tomorrow is the seventeenth – or it was before the accident and my coma. Me and Elliot were coming over for dinner . . . remember? You were gonna cook us a roast, with extra stuffing for Elliot. You remember, Mum, right?”
At the mention of my boyfriend, I prayed that he would show up soon because everything was messed up in my head and I needed him more than I had ever needed him in my life. He was my centre, my rock. I had to have him with me to help me make sense of this. To make sense of what my mum was saying to me.
Mum cried harder and I began to panic.
“Dad!” I shouted. “Daddy!”
I hadn’t called him that since I was a child, but the terror I felt allowed for nothing less than the cry of a little girl who needed her father.
“Noah.” Mum gripped my hand tight. “Listen to me first—”
“Dad,” I gasped when he filled the doorway.
My heart constricted with pain as my eyes rolled over him. He was over six foot tall and had always been a heavyset man with thick black hair and a beard to match. The man across from me now was skinny, bald and freshly shaved. His face was slightly gaunt, and he had aged. He was my dad though; I’d know him anywhere.
“Daddy, what’s going on? What happened to you?”
I began to cry, fear latching on to me like an octopus’s tentacles.
“Baby girl.” He crossed the room, his emerald-green eyes glazed over with tears. “Mummy is telling the truth. It’s the third of April, 2020.”
“No,” I said firmly. “No!”
Even as I said this, my heart had already accepted my parents’ words as the truth. My father had changed more than a person physically could in just fifteen days, but I didn’t want to believe that I had lost five years of my life, just like that. I couldn’t have lost that much time.
I couldn’t have, I had to fight it – I had to do . . . something.
“This can’t be real,” I said, reeling, my stomach churning with sickness. “It just can’t be, this is a nightmare. It’s not real, it’s not.”
“We’ll get through this together,” Mum sniffled, her thumbs gently stroking my knuckles. “I’m never letting us drift apart ever again.”
Again?
“What do you mean, Mum?” I questioned as dread filled me. “We’ve never drifted apart; we’ve always been close. Always.”
The bond I had with my parents was solid; every decision in my life was made with them in mind. The college I went to so I could remain close to them, the flat I eventually moved into, the job I had. Everything revolved around my family because of how much I loved and adored them.
“We have so much to talk about,” Dad said, leaning over and softly brushing his fingers against my cheek. “We’ll discuss everything, but right now you need to focus on healing, baby girl.”
Something was desperately wrong with him. Everything had changed about him – his appearance, his voice, though not his touch or the love for me that shone in his eyes. The soft brush of his fingers on my cheek held so much tenderness it made me want to sob.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I asked, searching his worried eyes that were now filled with so much sadness and pain that it made me feel like I was choking. “I know you’re hiding something. Please, just tell me. Are you okay?”
Mum burst into tears once more as my dad took my hand in his. I knew it was serious because he didn’t even attempt to comfort her; his focus was entirely on me and me alone.
“I’m sick, baby,” Dad said, his voice uneven. “I’m really sick.”
I felt my heart stop with fear.
“What?” I whispered. “What d’you mean? How sick? What’s wrong with you?”
“I . . .” Dad squeezed my hand. “Jesus, how do I say this to my child?”
He wasn’t asking me, or my mum, that question; with his head tilted back and his eyes on the ceiling, I knew his question was put to God.
“Sweetheart.” Dad exhaled a deep breath and his gaze returned to mine. “There’s no easy way to say this.”
“Just say it,” I pleaded. “Please.”
“I have cancer, Noah.”
For a moment, I felt absolutely nothing, then my heart started beating faster and a pain stung the centre of my chest. The throb in my head intensified as my mind screamed in denial of what I was hearing.
“Wh-what?” I stammered. “What d’you mean? You’re fine, you’re okay. You’re okay, Dad.”
Dad squeezed my hand, which was shaking so badly he held it tightly to keep me still. “I have lung cancer, stage two. Don’t you worry about me, I’m responding good and well to treatment. I just knew I’d look very different to you when Doctor Abara mentioned your memory loss. I was diagnosed over a year ago now.”
Inside, I was screaming, wailing and pleading for him to tell me it was all a lie. On the outside, I was barely breathing. Tears fell down my cheeks, and my throat burned as sobs tried to claw their way to the surface.
“Please,” I whimpered. “Please be okay, don’t leave me.”
“Never.” He wrapped his arms around me, and my mum,
