Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Penguin presents the audiobook edition of Death and Other Happy Endings by Melanie Cantor, read by Rebecca Lacey.

Jennifer Cole has just been told that she has a terminal blood disease. She has three months to live — ninety days to say goodbye to friends and family and put her affairs in order. Trying to focus on the positives (at least she'll never lose her teeth) Jennifer realises she has one overriding regret: the words she's left unsaid.

Rather than pursuing a frantic bucket list, she chooses to stay put, and write letters to three significant people in her life: her overbearing, selfish sister, her jelly-spined, cheating ex-husband, and her charming, unreliable ex-boyfriend finally telling them the things she's always wanted to say but never dared.

At first, Jennifer feels cleansed by her catharsis. Liberated, even. But once you start telling the truth, it's hard to stop. And, as she soon discovers, the truth isn't always as straightforward as it seems, and death has a way of surprising you ...

Release date: July 9, 2019

Publisher: Penguin Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

How it all begins
 

There are some people in this world to whom things happen. I am not one of them. I lead an ordinary life. I do regular things. That’s not to say my life is boring, but it’s not a life full of big “you won’t be‑ lieve what happened to me” stories, either. Until now. When this hap‑ pened. Honestly, it really did . . .
 

Are you with anyone, Jennifer?”

I smile apologetically. “Um, no . . . still single.” Shuffle in seat. I hate this sort of question.

“I go out on occasional dates, Dr. Mackenzie, it’s just I’m not very good with this internet stuff. Besides, I’ve never known my left from my right.” I chuckle awkwardly then catch the look on his face.
“You don’t mean that, do you?”

“No,” he says, scratching his chin. “Are you here with anyone today?” I’m thrown by this. For a moment, I thought he was about to tell me I had an STD, which under the aforementioned circumstances would give substance to my fear of public conveniences. “Why?” I say. “Should I be?”

“It would have been helpful. I asked the receptionist to suggest it.” I think she did. I thought she was mad.

He takes off his steel‑rimmed glasses and presses his palms against his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Jennifer. It’s not good news. You have a rare blood disorder. “

He looks grim faced. I’ve never seen this expression before.

The room starts to throb disconcertingly. My ears throb. Everything throbs.

I try focusing on the doctor’s face as he pinches the bridge of his throbbing nose, rubbing his pulsating spider‑veined flesh. He casts me a furtive glance like he’s checking my response, then mutters some unintelligible name. I only catch the ’osis at the end.

“What is that?”

This apparently warrants a biology lesson. A long and complicated lecture about platelets and white blood cells versus red blood cells. I’ve never been good with that stuff, least of all while the world is pulsating around me.

“That doesn’t sound friendly,” I say.

“No,” he mumbles. “Very unfriendly. And aggressive.” He fiddles with some papers, tapping them into neat alignment. He clears his throat. “Untreatable.”

I’m not sure I’m hearing him properly. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve looked into it extensively, Jennifer. This is such a rare condition, most hematologists in this country won’t come across it in their entire career. I’m afraid there’s no available treatment like, say, chemo. This needs time . . .” His jaw strains to the left then springs back as though hooked to elastic. “Something I’m not sure you have.” He coughs. “Three months at best.”

Now let’s pause here. Did he really say that? Slipping it in the way a disreputable restaurant slips an extra bottle of wine on the bill, hoping you won’t notice.

My ears are ringing. I try to ignore the bile that’s rising
in my throat but it’s unrelenting. “Dr. Mackenzie,” I splutter. “I’m afraid I may throw up.”
He shoots me a panicked glance and makes an old man’s slow‑mo dive behind his desk, knocking his elbow, “Ouch”—I feel his pain. He hands me a gray metal bin. I stare into it. He waits a polite moment.

My every cell is focusing on the bin. A discarded Snickers wrapper sits among scrunched balls of paper. I retch, then throw up. My head is pounding.

Dr. Mackenzie passes me some tissues and a glass of water he has on standby. “Take your time,” he says.

But I don’t have any. I sip slowly, trying to take stock. “So you don’t think treatment is worth pursuing?”

“I’ve made some inquiries, Jennifer, but I don’t want to raise your hopes. And I have to warn you, it’s not a cure.”

His voice floats around the acrid air, landing in my consciousness in snatches. “. . . even if ” . . . “it may only” . . . the words crashing against my ears. I don’t want to hear them.

The walls of his office close in on me, gray and bleak, devoid of dis‑ tinguishing features.

Like him.

He’s been my doctor for more than thirty years—he was my family’s doctor—and I know nothing more about him than these four gray walls. Oh, and he probably grabs Snickers bars for lunch. There’s not a single family photo or pet portrait or anatomical diagram. Not even some terrible poster that might put me off smoking—not that I smoke by the way but still, it would have been nice to have something to dis‑ tract my attention.

I’ve lost all track. He finishes. His voice is not one of enthusiasm. “I’m just trying to be honest with you, Jennifer,” he says, propping the glasses back on his nose. “You need to understand the prognosis. You need to be prepared.”

For what, Doctor?

“Thank you,” I say.


Dr. Mackenzie stands up and opens a window. I’m staring at the pale vinyl floor, turning back and forth in the swivel chair. I realize I’m still gripping the bin and put it down, sliding it away from under my nose.

“But Dr. Mackenzie. Are you sure? I mean, I just feel . . . tired. No pain. Just tired. And maybe a bit bloated. Are you sure it’s not IBS? Or CFS or . . . ?” I sound like I’m making a plea for an acronym. I am! Any‑ thing but a bloody ’osis. No pun intended.

“I have the results of your blood tests right here, Jennifer,” he says, holding up the neat set of papers, evidence for the prosecution. “I wish I could tell you something different, but I’m afraid it’s very advanced.” Plea overruled. He emits a weary sigh then deals the guilty verdict. “I’m really sorry. I wish you had come in sooner.”

I gasp inside my head. I’m forty‑three years old and I’ve just been told I’m not going to make it to forty‑four because I missed a deadline. I want to cry. No! I will not cry. I mustn’t. I’m trained. I’m in HR. I don’t do conspicuous emotion. Besides, this must be tough for him. I don’t need to make it any tougher. “I’m sorry, too,” I say.

He slides a clutch of leaflets across his desk like a croupier does his chips. “These might help you,” he says, his voice mellowing. I smile stiffly and toss them carelessly into my handbag, preferring the bin if I’m honest, and watch as he scribbles out a prescription. “The chemist around the corner has everything. This should see you through for now.”

“For now,” I repeat, aware of how ominous that sounds.

I examine the shaky scrawl, hoping for a compensatory windfall: Valium or codeine or a drug I might recognize from my mother’s long‑ gone medicine cabinet, her prized collection of everything anyone might ever need, particularly her. Nothing is familiar.

“What do they do?”

“They’ll help with the fatigue. And the pain.”

I look at him curiously, a hint of polite doubt. “But . . .”
 

His mouth twitches. I know what that means: read the leaflets.

He clears his throat, stands up with brusque finality. “I’ll need to see you again soon. Eunice in reception will find some available dates for you, so please see her on your way out. And don’t forget to pick up the prescription, dear.”

He calls me “dear.” He’s never called me dear. I’m definitely going to die. He walks around the desk and accompanies me to the door, which is nice of him because I usually see myself out, then gives me a fatherly pat on the shoulder.
“Sorry about your bin, Doctor,” I say.