Pauline felt Al roll over, climb out of the warm bed and go into the loo. She peered at the clock and it was three thirty, Saturday morning. Al had fallen into bed like a zombie, so why was he up now? She heard the toilet flush, footsteps in the hall and the bedroom door close. But no creak of bedsprings; no sliding of Al's body under the covers. She rolled onto her back and could see Al sitting in the chair by the window, peering out around the curtain.
"Al?"
"Yeah, Paul?"
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Then bed."
He padded over and climbed in, lying on his side. She scooted over and put her arm around him. He seemed tense. He usually spooned up against her back, so this was opposite.
She ran her hand down his back and he flinched. "Al? What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
She put her right hand around his waist and he grabbed it.
"Paul. Don't!"
"Al? Baby, what's wrong?"
"Just…" He sniffled. "Just… don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't… just hold me, ok?"
"Okay. Not interested?"
"Jesus, Paul!" He rolled over and she could just make his face in the dimness. "It's…"
"What?"
He sighed and rocked his head. "It's…"
"Al? Tell me. What is wrong?"
He stayed silent.
"It's the bollocks thing, ain't it?"
"Yeah," he sighed. "It hurts, Paul."
Jesus! Her eyes grew wide in the dark and her heart started banging away. "Is it… serious?"
"They'll let me know Tuesday, maybe."
"You went to see the Doc."
"Yeah, two docs actually. Doc Martin sent me to this other doc in Wadebridge. A specialist."
"Oh." Her heart sank. "That's serious."
"Maybe. Have to see. This other doc, and Doc Martin too, told me not to worry."
He was warm against her, the thin nightgown easily passed his body heat, and now sweat starting pouring off her body. "They said not to worry," she said.
"Yeah. Right. Not to worry."
"Are you? Worried?"
"Yeah." He put his left arm over her and turned on his side so they were lying face to face. "Yeah, I am."
"Oh."
He touched her hair and neck. "Don't you worry either."
"Al? What if it's…"
"It won't be."
"But masses, er, down there, can be cancer!"
"Yeah. I know how to use the Internet too." He sighed.
She didn't know how long they lay there like that, his hand on her hair, her hand on his back. It was a long night.
For the past three days, since the minute I'd left Dr. Johri's consulting room, I'd jumped every time my mobile had rung, wondering if was him or Doc Martin calling. And I couldn't quite decide whether I wanted to take that call or not.
On the one hand, the worrying was killing me, and a part of me simply wanted to know one way or the other. On the other hand, if the news was bad, I knew this was the first day of a life of worrying . . . or worse.
Dad had returned on Saturday. I hadn't told him anything about what had happened and had sworn Paul to silence as well. She'd nagged at me to tell him something but I figured that it made sense to wait – at least until we knew something for certain. Maybe it would be nothing at all and I could pretend the last couple of days hadn't even happened.
Trying to appear interested in what our customers wanted for lunch or dinner or Dad's discussion of the relative costs of various models of deep fat fryers took more energy than I had and, by Monday afternoon, I was looking for ways to avoid my dad, Pauline and everyone else.
"So, Al," my Dad said across the kitchen, "should we go with the chicken parmagiana or the monkfish en buerre for our special tonight?"
"Monkfish," I responded, not caring a whit either way.
"Are you sure? I saw you did a fish special on Friday and . . ."
Friday? Friday now seemed like a year ago. And whether we served chicken or fish or lizard for that matter seemed like the most useless decision in the world.
"Are you listening, son?"
"I said the monkfish was fine," I replied, turning away.
"That's not what I was askin'" Dad said a minute later. "Al? . . . Al? . . . What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing."
"Something must be. You seem torn up 'bout something all day long."
"I've got a lot on my mind."
"So do I, like trying to figure out what our dinner special should be. And I also need your help with—"
I jumped at the sound of my mobile going off. I snatched it out of my pocket and, without thinking, answered.
"Al, it's Dr. Ellingham."
I almost threw up at the sound of his voice.
"Al? Are you there?"
"Uh, yeah. Just a minute." I nearly ran outside, not wanting to get whatever news he was going to deliver in front of Dad. Once on the patio, I glanced around, making sure my conversation would be private.
"Yeah, Doc. It's me."
"Can you stop by the surgery?"
Shit. "You know something, don't you? Tell me now."
"No." That was the Doc, simple and direct as always.
"No, you don't know anything or no you won't tell me?" Without waiting for his answer, I added, "It's bad news, isn't it?"
"Al, I won't discuss your medical situation over the telephone. Now, I'd like to see you in the surgery. Today."
"All right," I said shakily. I knew I couldn't deal with Pauline being there, even if it meant waiting a few more hours. I considered asking the Doc to meet me someplace else but he probably had patients to see and he'd already come to the restaurant once . . . and with Dad now here it was the last place I wanted to meet him.
"Six o'clock?" I offered.
"Fine." He rang off.
"I spoke with Dr. Johri this afternoon regarding the results of your tests," Doc started. He sat upright across the desk from me. I kept my feet flat on the floor and tried not to look away as he spoke. The Doc was fiddling with his fountain pen, tapping it against the palm of his open hand. It was making me nervous.
I said nothing as I waited for his verdict.
"He confirmed that the mass in your testicle is a tumor."
Doc actually looked sad and I felt the air leave my throat.
"Cancer," I said, trying to wrap myself around the word.
"Not necessarily," the Doc said. "Some testicular tumors are benign."
But I knew from my Internet research that most were cancer. I had the big C. For what seemed like a full minute, I sucked in deep breaths and yet still couldn't seem to get enough air. The large room suddenly seemed very small and hot and suffocating—
"Al, are you okay?" The Doc's eyes had narrowed in concern.
Perfect, Doc. You just told me I have cancer in my bollock. They'll cut it off and I'll be running around the rest of my life with one nut. Girls'll be standing in line for me and guys in the loo won't notice at all that I'm half a man. That is if I don't die. I'm doing just dandy, thank you. No worries at all.
"Al? Al?" I felt pressure on my wrist and a strong hand pushed my head down toward my . . . my knees. "Take slow deep breaths, Al." I tried. "That's it."
"I'm all right," I said after a minute, fighting to sit up against his restraining hand. He let me rise, slowly. God help me, I'd almost passed out like some nervous Nellie.
"Sorry," I said once I'd returned to a sitting position and realized the Doc was kneeling next to me, something between worry and annoyance etched on his features.
"Hmm." He checked my pulse at my neck and wrist and, apparently satisfied, stood up and returned to his seat behind the desk.
I knew I had to pull myself together and start acting like a man, especially in front of the Doc. He'd told Dr. Johri that I was his friend and his friends probably didn't faint away when they got bad news.
"So what happens . . . next?" I asked, trying to sound a lot more sure of myself than I felt.
The Doc's professional mask was back in place. "Dr. Johri will operate to remove the affected testicle. Then they'll do a biopsy on the excised tissue to see if it's cancer." It was as if he was reciting from a textbook and, yet, the detached tone was oddly reassuring. If he wasn't in a panic, maybe I shouldn't be either.
"And if it is . . ." I couldn't bring myself to say the word aloud. "Then what?"
"If it's cancer, they'll run additional tests determine if it's spread beyond the testis. It's referred to as 'staging.' If the cancer is not advanced, you may need no treatment beyond the surgery. The blood tests Dr. Johri ran showed you have no tumor markers, which is a very good sign."
"Do they really have to . . . cut it off?" It pained me even to say the words.
"Yes."
"Why can't they just—"
"Perform the biopsy without removing the testicle?"
It was as if the Doc had read my mind – and said it a lot better than I would have. "Yeah," I managed.
"There's a danger that, if it is cancer, a biopsy could spread malignant cells to other parts of your body. The safest course is to remove the entire organ."
Great. I tried to picture myself lopsided and involuntarily winced. "So when do they do this surgery?"
"Dr. Johri wants to schedule you as soon as possible. He operates on Thursdays and can fit you in this week."
Thursday. Three days from now. My hand wandered to my left side. Only three more days of looking normal and being normal. Shit.
"Al, it's not wise to wait in these cases."
For some reason, his words set me off. "So I'm a case now, am I? Another correct diagnosis shuttled off to the nearest consultant to have his bollocks cut off. Your work is done, right Doc?"
"Al."
The Doc's voice was surprisingly soft, but in my current state, I wasn't in the mood. I stood up and moved to the door. "Doesn't matter to you, does it? You'll sleep soundly tonight. No girl's gonna look at you like some circus freak! – the one-balled boy. If I'm not dead, that is."
"Al." The Doc was now standing behind his desk. "You're talking nonsense. Sit down and calm down." It seemed that he took a breath before adding, "Please."
There was something in his voice. He was his usual domineering and obstinate self. Yet, I also heard what I took to be a note of compassion and so, rather than rush out of the surgery, I returned to my chair, slumped and defeated.