It was a wig.She’d suspected it was; she’d noticed the wayMira’s hair sat solidly on her head. She’d wondered, vaguely, what it might mean; she’d heard Mira mention over dinner that she was Jewish, and thought perhaps it could be related to that – she was sure some religious women covered their hair.
She stared at Mira. ‘You look lovely without it,’ she said, meaning it.
Mira’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you,’ she said, still slow with her words, still full of effort. ‘I had... cancer – stage two – I’ve... finished my treatment.’
Naya nodded, clasped Mira’s hand.That makes sense.She wondered, now, why she hadn’t also considered that as a possibility. Her exhaustion; how pale she was. Naya had met cancer patients who took months to recover from chemo, even once the cancer had gone. She wondered if Mira had managed to disguise it in her video somehow – surely Hannah couldn’t have known? She’d never have agreed to her coming here if she had – would she?
‘I’m so impressed you still managed to come here,’ said Carly, reaching a hand to Mira’s shoulder.
‘Thanks,’ said Mira, her hand moving down from her scalp. ‘And I’m glad the wig... is gone, actually,’ she said, a small smile on her lips. ‘I was never sure... it was because Ezra – my husband – he thought it would help me feel better, when all my hair came out...’ She shook her head. ‘But it always felt wrong... I feel more myself without it.’
‘That’s good you’re having a break from treatment now – did you have to go through a few rounds of chemo?’ said Ben, before tailing off. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry – my mother had cancer, so I know a thing or two...’
‘Yes, I did, and it was... brutal,’ breathed Mira. ‘But the last round... was the worst.’She stopped talking, tried to sit up again, then grimaced in pain and grabbed at her chest. ‘My chest – it hurts so badly,’ she gasped. Naya leaned forward, felt for Mira’s pulse. It was weak, but steady.
‘I don’t think it’s your heart,’ she said. ‘It’s most likely bruising to your ribs from where the mud landed on you. One of us must have some painkillers...’
‘I have some in my bag, hold on a second,’ said Ben, unzipping the side pocket of his rucksack, rifling through the compartment. ‘Here,’ he said, brandishing a pill packet, holding it in Naya’s direction. She reached for it, was about to pop one of the tablets from the pack. Then she looked at the label.
‘These?’ she said. She held them up. She saw Scott glance at the packet and frown, then Carly’s eyes flicker towards it, both of them taking in the name on its side.
‘These aren’t painkillers,’ she said, ‘they’re—’
Ben grabbed the packet back from her hand before she could finish her sentence. ‘Sorry, not those,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve got too much shit in here. Look – I’ve got some Panadol, here.’
Naya took them from his outstretched hand; nodded. It was none of her business what medication Ben was on, but it was difficult to get hold of the kind of drugs she’d just seen – he must have had a good reason to be on them. She handed Mira two of the Panadol and her water bottle to swig them down.
‘Thanks,’ said Mira. ‘I need to lie down – in a bed – can we walk back to the house?’
Naya nodded, smiled, her relief at Mira’s rescue from the mudslide feeling doubly intense now that she knew she’d also survived cancer. She stood up – but she moved fast, much toofast, and a wave of nausea rose up and took her in its grip.No, no, not now.Naya turned away from Mira, away from all of them – she refused to vomit in front of the others, especially Scott; she did still havesomedignity; she wanted to maintain some appearance of attractiveness near someone she was already feeling so drawn to.
She stumbled towards the waterfall, her hand covering her mouth, reached the tree where they’d taken shelter, just had time to lean over before the vomit started to rise. She threw up until there was nothing left but yellow bile; she wiped her mouth, tried to calm her heart rate.
Her hands moved, instinctively, towards her stomach, feeling for the scar that spanned its width, splitting her belly in two, the way the surgeon had when each of her children came screaming into the world. Their short lives flashed before her eyes like a movie reel: bawling red-faced babies, blundering toddlers, first days at school with uniform hanging off them like dolls playing dress up. Tears, hers and theirs; well-meaning but heart-rendingconcern about their developmentfrom doctors and teachers and, now, their family therapist.
And then the chaos of her own conflicted feelings. Because Naya wouldn’t change her children. Whenever people asked her how she coped, that’s the first thing she said. She meant it; she wouldn’t. They were perfect. They were exactly as they were meant to be.
She’d change how hard things were for them, though. She’d take away their meltdowns and the way they suffered trying to do things that others took for granted, like going to a supermarket or making new friends. She’d change the fact that none of the things she’d tried – speech and language sessions,occupational therapy, social stories, everything the professionals recommended – none of them made much of a difference; nothing seemed to help much, or for long.
She would change the world around them too, if she could. And she’d change other people: the way they looked at Marcus when a car horn beeped and he fell to the floor, screaming, hands clamped to his ears. Or the way they treated Elodie when she was too exhausted to keep the mask up any longer, when it had to come off, and everyone acted like she was a different person all of a sudden. A person they didn’t understand, or maybe even like, if they were being honest. But it was the Elodie without her mask – a nine-year-old girl who liked to mew like a kitten and spin in circles until she felt sick – the real Elodie, that’s who Naya saw. That’s who she loved. And yet it was hard – getting harder all the time, in a way. It must have been; she wouldn’t have come here if everything was OK. If she wascoping.
‘Naya – are you all right?’ Scott was standing next to her now, one large hand reaching to her shoulder.
Naya nodded, stood up. ‘Sorry, yes – I think it was just the shock of it all, and I stood up too fast – I’m OK now.’
‘Here,’ he said, handing her his water bottle. ‘Drink something.’ Naya took a slow sip, waited for the liquid to settle in her stomach. She looked at the others; all exhausted, all covered in damp mud, leaves in their hair, bodies slumped, exhausted. She watched Mira, still recovering her strength. She’d need help if she was going to manage more than an hour of hiking; Naya wasn’t sure she was strong enough to walk back herself now.
She felt a sudden flash of irritation.Why are we doing this without Hannah, anyway?Wasn’t this supposed to be a guidedretreat, helping them to learn how to heal, away from the trappings of rigid, traditional medicine? Teaching her some new techniques and ideas to help both herself and her children?
So why had Hannah decided to travel to another town on the very day they were arriving, when she knew a storm was coming? A DIY wellness experience and being out in a rainforest with no guide wasn’t what any of them had signed up for; she might as well have stayed at home and hoped to achieve respite via the online forums for mothers of autistic children she sometimes visited. At least with those, she knew exactly what she was signing up for. She’d left her children behind, come all the way here; she deserved more than this. They all did.
‘I wonder if we should use the satellite phone now,’ she said, turning towards Carly. ‘You have it, right?’ Carly nodded, bent down to open her backpack. ‘I’m just not sure Mira should try to walk back – she’s weak still. I think perhaps we should call for help?’
‘You’re right,’ said Scott, nodding. ‘She should probably get checked over in hospital – do you reckon, Naya?’
Naya nodded. ‘I think that’s for the best.’
As she glanced at Carly, waited for her to dig out the satellite phone, she heard a quiet gasp behind her, a mumbled, ‘Oh, holy shit.’What now?Naya turned; it was Ben. He was staring at the path from the waterfall that led back towards the house, a finger pointing towards it. She followed its direction.
