The To Do List

Nine

"I don't know why they've sent you here," the receptionist says.

"We were asked to come," Dad tells her. "Dr Ryan's secretary phoned

and asked us to come."

"Not here," she says. "Not today."

"Yes, here," he tells her. "Yes, today."

She huffs at him, turns to her computer and scrolls down. "Is it for a

lumbar puncture?"

"No, it's not." Dad sounds increasingly pissed off. "Is Dr Ryan even

running a clinic today?"

I sit down in the waiting area and let them get on with it. The usual

suspects are here – the hat gang in the corner plugged into their portable

chemo and talking about diarrhoea and vomiting; a boy clutching his mum's

hand, his fragile new hair at the same stage as mine; and a girl with no

eyebrows pretending to read a book. She's pencilled fake eyebrows in

above the line of her glasses. She sees me staring and smiles, but I'm not

having any of that. It's a rule of mine not to get involved with dying people.

They're bad news. I made friends with a girl here once. Her name was

Angela and we e-mailed each other every day, then one day she stopped.

Eventually her mum phoned my dad and told him Angela had died. Dead.

Just like that, without even telling me. I decided not to bother with anyone

else.

I pick up a magazine, but don't even have time to open it before Dad

taps me on the shoulder. "Vindicated!", he says.

"What?"

"We were right, she was wrong." He waves cheerily at the receptionist

as he helps me stand up. "Stupid woman doesn't know her arse from her

elbow. Apparently we're now allowed straight through to the great man's

office!" Dr Ryan has a splash of something red on his chin. I can't help staring

at it as we sit opposite him at his desk. I wonder – is it pasta sauce, or

soup? Did he just finish an operation? Maybe it's raw meat.

"Thank you for coming,b he says, and he shuffles his hands on his lap.

Dad edges his chair closer to me and presses his knee against mine. I

swallow hard, fight the impulse to get up and walk out. If I don't listen,

then I won't know what he's going to say, and maybe then it wont be true.

But Dr Ryan doesn't hesitate, and his voice is very firm. "Tessa," he

says, "it's not good news, I'm afraid. Your recent lumbar puncture shows us

that your cancer has spread to your spinal fluid."

"Is that bad?" I ask, making a little joke.

He doesn't laugh. "It's very bad, Tessa. It means you've relapsed in

your central nervous system. I know this is very difficult to hear, but things

are progressing more quickly than we first thought."