Thursday

I arrange a set of seven polymer clay bears atop the en suite bathroom mirror, from smallest to largest, spacing them out carefully.

They're not very thematic bathroom décor. I don't have any suitable fish sculptures though. I had a pretty cute mermaid once, but she was one of the casualties of the break-in.

I open the cabinet door to test whether the bears are safe where they are, or if they'll be dislodged by the movement. They seem stable enough.

I didn't want to be here, and yet here I am; wasting time, swanning about in the spacious guest room.

Technically, I'm 'unpacking,' but I don't want to unpack my belongings here. It feels like admitting defeat. My clothes are in the closet, so I'm unpacked enough. Now, I'm listlessly looking for the best places to display my remaining art.

I don't want to wake up confused about whether I'm here or in Jaq's room ever again. I need my mark on this space to be obvious.

I hold up a weird doll I made from sticks and scraps of fabric when I was a child. I vaguely remember planning to embroider its name on its apron. I don't know where the apron is anymore, nor do I recall its name, so I'm not entirely happy about putting it on display. It feels like half the thing's story is missing.

It's gloriously creepy though.

I sit it on the shelf over the bed, with its feet dangling down.

I hope it will discourage visitors.

Living in a spare room at my boyfriend's parent's house feels like a new low. I know that I shouldn't be worried about wearing out my welcome. I'm supposed to be marrying Jaq. Still. I bring nothing of value to this place. Even in my worst days of homelessness, when I found myself between good places to squat; If I had the good fortune to have a friend's couch to crash on, I'd thank them by doing chores for them.

What use am I here?

I suppose I could try my hand at baking, or something equally inane. Then, I could bring Frances a plate of biscuits every time she summoned us to a meal. She'd probably pretend to be happy about the first batch, but I suspect it wouldn't be long before she got sick of them. She might even stop asking me to come to dinners. That wouldn't be so bad.

How am I this spiteful?

I've never been a very good baker. She might foolishly eat one biscuit and then come to the very reasonable conclusion that I'm attempting to murder her.

Better if I don't.

I flip open a hardcover sketchbook, looking for an okay drawing with the right orientation so I can stand it up on top of the nightstand. Landscape would be best, but it seems like the entire book is taken up with bad portraits of dogs. I sigh and drop the book back into the box. Most of the books in there are softcover, so they won't stand up on their own.

I've done nothing today, and I'm already exhausted.

Through the open window, I hear the soft sound of a distant but approaching siren.

Weird. The house is so far back from the road I can't normally hear any traffic.

I guess sirens are pretty loud.

With great effort, I kick the box of sketchbooks under the bed. I'd rather not stack them on a shelf.

The siren gets louder.

It sounds like it's in the driveway.

I lean out the window to see if I can see the source - an ambulance. The siren shuts off as paramedics charge up to the front door with a gurney.

Something must have happened to Frances.

I dodge around the scattered stacks of boxes and make my way out into the hall. I walk quickly, with purpose, but I have no idea where I should go - or if I should really be out here where I could be in someone's way.

I don't know where Frances' room is, or where she spends her time when she's home.

I make my way to the front door.

Jaq and Lionel stand about, fretting, while Isaac follows after the paramedics carrying Frances back out to the ambulance. He staggers drunkenly.

'Someone should drive him to the hospital - he'll be in the way if he gets in the ambulance with her.'

Lionel nods, looking relieved he has something to do. He chases after the group, calling to his father.

Jaq's vacant expression shows an echo of confusion.

'Should we drive there too?'

I think for a moment.

'We should go to her room and pack a bag with some things so she can stay in the hospital overnight. Then we can follow.'

Jaq nods and starts to climb the grand staircase.

Of course, the master bedroom had to be up there. It's so perfectly cliché.

I follow at a distance, wondering if we should pack some spare clothes for Isaac too.

He'll probably come back home once he knows what's going on. It's probably fine.

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I stand in the waiting room, beside a particularly ugly artificial fern. I felt like a third wheel in Frances' hospital room. The men crowd around their matriarch like a protective wall, completely oblivious to the fact that they have become a troublesome obstacle for the nurses.

I'm an outsider. An interloper. I don't belong there.

I'm not entirely sure what's going on, but it sounds like it was a seizure caused by the cancerous growth affecting the pressure inside her skull. I guess it must be brain cancer, then... though it could equally be in her sinuses, ears or neck.

I'm not sure how long she'll be in the dreary little hospital room. I hope it won't be long.

I wonder if she likes flowers. The hospital must have a gift shop somewhere - the big ones always do. I should be able to get her something bright and pretty.

I'm sure some coffee wouldn't go amiss for her well-wishers, either.

I trudge down the fluorescently lit corridor, looking for the lift. This place, like all hospitals, is a maze. I'm not sure I'll be able to find my way back on my own. I try to pick out landmarks I can navigate by.

The gift shop is about what you'd expect. Shelves overflowing with pink and blue stuffed animals for the new babies. The stand displaying flowers is almost overshadowed by a flotilla of balloons professing sympathies, congratulations, and cute jokes about lost tonsils and broken limbs.

It's probably better if I select something self-contained. The flowers'll be easier to manage if they don't need a vase.

I have plenty to choose from. Gerberas, irises, carnations, chrysanthemums - the ever-popular and so generic rose. I'm surprised there aren't any tulips. Finally, my eyes come to rest on a bouquet of sunflowers. They've got their own briquette of soggy florist's foam well hidden inside a decorative box. They'll do nicely.

I don't bother to check the price.

With the flowers in one arm, I stop at the hospital's cafe. It's well situated so most of the seats face toward the gift shop, providing patrons with the chance to impulse buy last minute gifts while they rest and eat microwaved quiche.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

I don't know how Jaq or Isaac like their coffee. I should have asked. I order Lionel's coffee with milk and sugar, then four others; half with milk, half without, and a handful of little packets of sugar. We'll have a spare, but I'm sure a nurse won't mind taking one.

Unless Frances wakes up.

She probably won't want to drink bad hospital coffee first thing after she regains consciousness. It smells burnt.

I carry my load very slowly to the lift.

I'm pretty sure they were on the third floor.

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The hospital lights maintain a perfect level of daylight-bright - the only way I know the sun has set is by the clock on my phone. I return to the sick room and tap Jaq and Lionel on their shoulders.

'We should probably go home soon.'

It looks like Isaac intends to spend the night beside his ailing wife. I wish I'd brought him some clothes.

Lionel leaves his keys with Isaac so he can drive home later if he changes his mind about sleeping in his own bed. He barely seems to register that he's been given the keys at all. If I didn't know he'd been without any alcohol since he arrived that morning, I'd have assumed he was in a drunken stupor.

Poor guy.

We return to the hospital car park. I avoid looking at the exorbitant fee demanded by the exit gate when the parking ticket is inserted. It seems especially cruel for the hospital to profiteer off visitors like this.

Jaq breaks the silence;

'I'm sorry I didn't believe you when you told me she was sick.'

I shrug.

She seemed immortal to me. I barely believed it. I certainly didn't think she'd be in a hospital this soon.

Lionel looks pertubed.

'You knew?'

I nod.

'Isaac let slip after lunch on Tuesday.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

I didn't even think to tell him.

'I didn't realise it was this urgent.'

Isaac said 'stage four,' and that sounded bad - but I genuinely have no idea what a classification like that means. 'Cancer' already sounded bad. I think I assumed that if it were really serious, it'd be more obvious.

'I'm sorry I didn't tell you right away.'

Lionel doesn't respond. It seems like he almost expects to be left out of the loop.

That makes me feel worse.

I don't want to perpetuate the cycle.

Friday

I shuffle around the lavish home office, searching for a key. The paperwork Isaac asked for was supposed to be in the desk drawer, but it wasn't. I suspect it's in the locked cabinet behind the desk. I tip out the contents of a decorative pen holder on the shelf and find the key at the bottom. Finally.

The key clicks in the lock and the cabinet swings silently open. There are stacks of documents in here. I take a pile of them out to flip through them on the desk. A very recent bill for yacht registration, a half-completed application for entry into a dog race, all sorts of things that Frances must have been planning to handle in the coming weeks. I do my best not to get them out of order.

'Aha!'

I split the pile so it's easier to extract the document marked 'Medical Directives'.

Underneath it is a much thicker document marked 'Last Will and Testament - Revised Copy.'

I desperately want to drop what I'm doing and read it.

Reluctantly, I return it to the cabinet with the other unwanted documents. I'll have the chance to come back and snoop later.

I rush back to the master bedroom where Jaq is still looking for Frances' sleeping mask.

'Did you check under the pillow?'

He lifts the pillow up and grabs the oddly utilitarian thing. I thought it'd be pink and lacy. It's just grey.

I put the document into the bag.

'Is that everything, then?'

He nods.

'Everything Father asked for.'

I pick up the bag while Jaq tries his best to return the contents of the bedside drawers to their rightful place. It's a futile effort.

'Come on, we can fix that later.'

He nods.

We walk to the car. Lionel isn't joining us today. Lucky bastard.

The drive to the hospital is quiet. I'm normally a chatterbox, but I really can't think of anything to say. How exactly does one console the adult child of a dying woman?

It might be easier if he looked sad.

I wonder if he's ever experienced the death of someone he was this close to before. A grandparent, perhaps? Maybe an uncle?

I don't even know if he has aunts and uncles.

Not on Frances' side, at least. She was an only child.

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I stand by the door with Isaac. We've both been banished from Frances' hospital room. She wanted to talk to Jaq alone.

'How are you holding up?'

He says nothing, but feigns a smile. It’s more than enough to convey his exhaustion. I can guess at his deeper emotional state - I know I’d be struggling. I wish I knew how to comfort him. The best I can come up with is;

‘At least she’s conscious now.’

He doesn’t look up as he says;

‘There is that.’

The door opens beside me, and Jaq touches my arm.

’She wants to talk to you.’

‘Me? Why?’

He shrugs.

I enter the room and walk to the bedside. Frances is propped up with a stack of pillows. She looks like a discarded chocolate bar wrapper; thinner, more wrinkled. Oddly flat. She looked so healthy a mere two days ago, tormenting her husband with Charles. This change is too extreme.

‘How are you?’

She waves a hand dismissively.

’I’ve been better.’

’Do you know when they will let you go home?’

'I may not be going home. I’ve spoken to Jacques... I want to live to see him married.' She pauses, letting the implication of the statement fill the gap. 'I’m sure you would prefer to take your time; he said something about you wanting to be married in the spring... but I don't think I have that long.'

The look in her eyes is unsettling - a kind of pleading desperation that I never imagined I’d see there. It hurts to meet her gaze.

I'm glad Jaq's lie was at least believable - a lot of people want to marry in spring - but now I'm reluctant to say anything more without quizzing him about what he said.

'I understand. You're his mother, of course it’s important to you.'

I wish I'd planned for wedding discussions - I was so busy inventing our fake past that I forgot I needed to consider our fake future. It didn't even occur to me that it might come up. It should have - he literally called me his fiancée.

'You're right, I did want to move a little slower. I’ve never arranged a wedding before. I had some ideas about things I'd like, but I haven't looked into any of the logistics.' I sigh. 'Do you have any idea how long you have? Would I be able to make arrangements for you to attend in a wheelchair, or are you already too sick for that?'

As a child, I imagined my groom would be dressed like a knight in full plate armour, and I’d ride in on a unicorn, dressed in a tutu, with a fairy godmother to walk me down the aisle.

As a young teen, I wanted to be the one in the armour - but it was brightly coloured plastic and spandex sentai armour rather than steel plate. My partner could wear whatever they wanted.

I joked with Casey once about having an Elvis-themed wedding where everyone but the celebrant was dressed as Elvis.

I grew more disillusioned with the idea of marriage over time.

At best, It’s an excuse for a party. At worst, it's a huge waste of time and money, and the source of a ton of unnecessary stress. Some even result in the destruction of the relationship the wedding was intended to cement.

It doesn’t mean much at all in the present day; there are barely any tangible benefits. Even when you have kids; de-facto partners get basically the same rights as married couples under the law. You don't need a government-issued document for that.

I’m really not opposed to the concept of marriage. Other people have their own opinions, their own reasons, and are welcome to do it. I just don’t see the point in putting myself through that.

If my partner really wanted it, I’d be fine with getting married; provided the person I was marrying was someone I really loved.

I don't love Jaq.

I barely like Jaq.

Now that I'm forced to consider a wedding seriously as a part of Jaq's scheme to defraud his parents... it's going to be a painful chore. There's no chance of me being able to walk down the aisle wearing a stupid costume. If I torment Frances with ugly colour schemes and guests dressed in the weirdest outfits the theatre's costume storage room is able to provide... that would make me even more of a monster.

A boring, generic, white wedding is the only legitimate option.

Even though I won't actually be marrying Jaq, this is probably the only time I will ever 'be' a bride. It feels like such a waste to run down to Rita's charity store and grab whichever discarded wedding dress mostly fits me, order whatever white flowers are available at the local florist, and pay a celebrant to meet us in the hospital.

It won’t even need to be a real celebrant. Enough of my friends are actors.

It might be hard to explain why we need a fake, but I imagine I'll be able to persuade someone.

I'd barely even need to lie.

I could say Frances wants to see her boy wed before she dies. This will be a rushed display wedding just for her and his immediate family, to give her peace of mind. If I want a real wedding with my friends and family in attendance, it will take too long to arrange, and she might die in the meantime... and I don’t know how many venues suitable for a real wedding (that are also available for an immediate booking) will be able to make accommodations for a hospital bed.

None of that is untrue.

I mean, apart from the part where the whole ceremony is a lie. I'm being honest that this is a show I'm putting on for a dying woman, though.

'The doctors won't give me an estimate on my life expectancy.' she says.

I nod.

'The sooner, the better, then?'

She seems to sink deeper into her bed with relief.

'You should hire a wedding planner, it’s their job to know all the details, so they will be able to organise something quickly.'

There can’t be a wedding planner. They would insist on a real celebrant.

Or would they? Couldn’t we just say we will go to the registry office and do the official bit later?

'I will look into it, it sounds like a good idea.'

She smiles;

'You can use my accounts to pay for the whole thing.'

That poses a new problem and presents me with a whole new layer of hell to dwell in. If I did that, she would see all the receipts and charges. If she doesn't know how much it cost, she probably won't bat an eye at a $25 wedding dress, but if she does... she might see it as a sign that I'm not invested in the marriage.

'That’s too generous - I'd feel like I’m just mooching off you if I let you do that. Please let me look into it first, and if there's anything I need help with, I'll bring it to you.'

'You’re selling yourself short. You provide a lot to the family by supporting Jacques... and I would feel more comfortable knowing you have all the resources you need.'

She reaches into her purse on the bedside table and passes me a credit card.

'Please take it.'

I never knew how much guilt could hurt, physically. I’ve felt fear and anxiety so severe that it altered my perception of gravity. Never guilt. It’s like my heart is a tangle of barbed wire, shredding my insides with every beat.

I hold her hand gently in both of my own.

'Alright. I will accept, but I insist I pay for some things on my own.'

She releases the card and withdraws.

I will have to find ways to fake some of the more inconvenient bills. Maybe even hire a real celebrant. The signed marriage certificate doesn’t have to survive the trip to the office of births deaths and marriages. We could secretly destroy it; tell her we paid the registration fee at the office out of our own pocket. We could even frame it as being a small concession to my own vanity.

She would buy that, right?

This is so wrong.

I hate that my entire life now revolves around this deception. I don't want any of this. I'd rather hurl myself out the window than marry Jaq, but I can’t defend myself from these very reasonable requests without revealing the ruse. I feel like flotsam adrift on the sea, tossed by currents and waves I have no control over. I want to swim, but I’m just garbage, not even a person. I can’t swim.

I made a stupid choice when I didn’t fully understand the consequences.

Could I play at being a bridezilla? Could I be ridiculously difficult and draw it out forever?

Could I live with myself if I did that to Frances?

I’m toying with the last moments of a human being. I’m already doing her a disservice by not being the doting girlfriend she thinks I am. I don’t think I could disrespect her even more by being that unique brand of awful.

'Did you want me to send anyone else back in?' I ask, but she's already fallen asleep

It feels like a slap to the face.

She's so defenceless, lying there. The echoes of the demon I imagined her to be fade from my mind.

I step out of the room and Isaac returns to the bedside unbidden.

He refuses to leave her.

I’d call it romantic, but how can I make such a judgement? he says he cheated on her. He’s willing to sit through her flirting with younger men because of his guilt. I don’t know what this is. Loyalty?

Whatever it might be, it makes me nauseous.