Slow Grind (Men of Mornington)

Mum has been there for Max more than his own mother has. During his parents’ divorce, he spent a lot of time staying with us while his parents fought, the same as me spending the majority of my free time at his place while my parents were working out their own separation. It was a fucking mess, and I know being able to escape over to my house is what got him through it. It’s also probably why we’re so close; having experienced our individual struggles together. We’ve always had each other’s backs and this time, with this illness, it’s going to be no different.

“What is it?” she asks, her voice unusually high pitched. I can see in the way she’s picked up the pace of potato peeling, she already knows but needs to hear it from me.

“Hodgkin’s Lymphoma … again,” I mutter, the words sticking in my throat. Fuck. How can Max, of all people, be dying? Because that’s what’s happening here. We can pussyfoot around the truth as much as we like, but it doesn’t change the fact my best mate is dying. His body is giving out on him, and we can’t stop it.

“Oh, poor Max,” Mum whispers, tears filling her eyes. Just then, Dad walks in. Sidling up to Mum, he wraps his arms around her shoulders and kisses her head. “Isn’t that what he had before?” she asks.

I nod. “How fucking unlucky do you have to be to get the same kind of cancer twice?”

Typically, she calls me on my foul language the second it leaves my mouth, but this time she lets it slide without even a sideways glance. That’s how I know this is really affecting her.

“Is he going to be okay? He’ll have chemotherapy, or whatever they’re doing these days, and be fine, right?” She’s thinking the same thing I did when I first fo

und out. He beat it once; he can do it again.

“It’s pretty advanced,” I say quietly. “There’s not much left they can do. They’ve already done two rounds and are just starting the third, but optimism is gone. The doctors don’t think it’ll work, but they’re giving it a final go.”

“There’s always something,” Mum argues. She slams her fists down on the counter. “That poor kid. He’s already been through so much.”

“Mum…” I want to ease her sadness, but there’s not much I can do to help. She loves Max, and she’s going through the same thing the rest of us are.

“Anyone home?” I perk up at the sound of Em’s voice. She rounds the corner, joining us in the kitchen, her eyes lighting up when she sees me.

“I thought that was your car,” she exclaims, throwing herself into my arms. I chuckle and hug her back, nearly crushing her tiny frame. I’d just upgraded my ute the week before, and Em had only seen it once.

Looking at the two of us, you’d swear we’re not related. I’m tall and well-built, with a thick mop of dark curls—which I keep cut pretty short, or it gets out of control—and light blue eyes, both which I get from Mum. Em is short, even shorter than Mum, who stands at barely five feet. She also has gorgeous blonde hair that is currently shaved on one side and dyed bright blue. Which I guess matches her icy blue eyes, the only thing that gives a clue we’re related in any way, other than the shit-eating grin we both have perfected over the years.

“What’s this?” I ask, flicking her newly-pierced lip. She already has more holes in her than a crumpet.

“It’s a new car. Isn’t it great? The horsepower is unbelievable,” she responds and catches me off guard, as I don’t catch the sarcasm right away.

“What? Are you high?” I bark, glaring at her.

“No, you dickwad.” She rolls her eyes at me. “It’s a lip ring, which I thought was pretty obvious, seeing as it’s a ring through my lip. Don’t ask dumb questions.”

“Stop putting random holes in your body,” I retort, mimicking her tone.

“Stop acting like you’re somebody’s father, Andrew. I already have one of those.” She quickly jabs me in the stomach, running around the kitchen island bench so I can’t catch her and tosses me a wink.

“Why are you here, anyway?” she asks.

“Max is sick,” I mumble.

“No way,” Em mutters, and the happy mood quickly shifts.

“Cancer again?” she asks. I nod grimly. She dumps her plate on the table and flops into a chair, dragging her foot up under her. I spot ink on her ankle and reach over, yanking the cuff of her leggings up. “Do you mind?” she asks, laughing.

“Really, Em? A fucking tat?” I growl. She glances over at Mum to make sure she didn’t hear—because Mum would kill her—and then glares at me.

“So I got a tiny tattoo,” she hisses. “I’m an adult, in case you don’t remember. I don’t need to ask your permission for anything, Drew.”

I know she’s right, but she’s still my little sister, and I don’t want her covered in ink. As stupid as it sounds, I don’t want her doing anything she might regret later. A tat isn’t like sticking a needle through your lip. Once you get it, you’re stuck with it.

“Can we get back on the subject of Max?” Em asks. She sighs, shaking her head. “I can’t believe he’s got to go through all that again. I guess once you’ve had cancer, you never really escape it.”

“I know,” I moan, joining her at the table. “It sucks, but he’s a strong guy. He’ll get through this.” Em raises her eyebrows at me, and I sigh. I couldn’t sound less confident if I tried.

“How’s his family coping? Aubrey’s still over in America, right?” she asks with a hint of attitude in her voice, already knowing exactly where Aubrey’s been for the last few years. I don’t blame her, though. She and Aubrey were thick as thieves growing up, and when Aubrey moved to the States with her dad, she stopped talking to everyone on a regular basis, including my sister. They still chatted every once in a while, on Facebook, but from what Em tells me, it’s nothing like how they used to be. I was mad at Aubrey for a while after seeing my sister so upset about losing her best friend, but when Em stopped acting like she was hurt, I let it go.