Casey Makes Me Lunch

Casey makes me lunch when she comes over to the flat. She looks around at everything, noticing the dust in the corners, dirty dishes in the sink. She bustles around cleaning them up. And she opens the cupboards and run her eyes through them, ticking off in her head what isn't there, what is and probably shouldn't be.

“For goodness sake, Casey. Sit down, I'll make you a coffee.”

She doesn't want that. She's going through the cupboards, inventorying the fridge. She says “I'll make you lunch.”

“You don't need to do that.”

“I want to.”

“Okay.” No point in arguing with my sister. She's a steam roller in heels. When she says she's going to do something, then that's what happens. You duck, you get out of the way. You put your arms around, her if you can, when you see that face on her: hurt and misery stacked up and teetering. You do if she'll let you. But for now, she pushes all that aside, goes hunting through my draws for a can opener.

I point to where I think it is.

“Oh, Jerry, why? It doesn't even make sense.”

“I got my system. I know where stuff goes.”

She comes over to the counter and stands in front of me, fingers curled in claws on the criss-cross pattern. Her red hair surrounds her like a lion's mane, all rugged and tawny, a little bit curled, perpetually unwilling to be tamed. She has very pale eyes, a colour of green touched with almost-white yellow. Hard not to notice them when they're boring into you like this. She reaches out and cups my cheeks. “Are you taking care of yourself?”

“Of course I am.”

“I mean truly, honestly. Are you?”

“Yes.” But I get it. I have a few mirrors in the house. I know I look white and shrunken, that I suffer the kind of emaciation associated with anorexia or concentration camps. Almost all my hair is a casualty of the chemo, there's only a few wisps left, and their blondness just adds to this aura of a weakened and failing old man.

I'm twenty-six, by the way.

She says: “You look very thin.”

“I am very thin. I've spent the last eight weeks chucking up. That's how it goes.” She should know, we've all been through this before; this wearying, wavering dance. She knows I wish sometimes the music would stop – I sometimes think she does as well, but I know I'd never get those words out of her. Say what you like about her Casey, her love is fierce, and she loves us family with an especial ferocity.

She asks: “Are you taking your meds?”

“Yes.”

“Always? On time?”

“I've got an app for that. I showed you.”

“Okay. But you still look sick.”

“I am sick.” I decide to give her a cheeky smile, just to see what she'll do with it.

She returns it, reluctantly, as if I've pulled it out of her mouth with pliers. “Well, you look thin,” she says, “I'm going to make you lunch.”

And that's how it is. She busies herself with chopping vegetables: carrots, spring onions, parsnips, leeks. And she breaks eggs into sizzling oil, adds chopped sausages, baked beans, spices. My sister can make a meal out of anything. And she hums away to herself as she cooks, and then she sings a little bit beneath her breath, a song I can't quite make out.

It's Casey, and she's always so strong. That's why it takes a me a little while to realise that her song is made up of tiny sobs. When I tilt my head to catch a look at her face, I can see the way it's crumpled and flattened, the way a grim downturn of her mouths fights against the tears, but loses. Her face is wet and her eyes are angry.

I come up behind her and encircle her with my arms. Like a brother does. I might be the sick one, but I'm still her brother. I'm still supposed to defend her against anything that comes. Including sadness. And grief. And disappointment. I press my cheek into her shoulder and hold on.

“I'm sorry, Jerry.” She whispers.

“It's okay.”

“You don't need this now.”

Oddly: oddly I do. “Is it me?” I whisper, “Is it Graham?”

“It's Graham.”

“Fuck him.”

“Well, I can't now can I? I can't even talk to him. He won't even see me. He hates me.”

“Moron.”

“No. Jerry. He's right.” She turns around in spite of my embrace – my cancer-wasted arms can't hold as tight as they used to.

I can see how deep the wounds go. And how fresh. She's only three days divorced, and in spite of the months leading up to it, she still feels shocked, the wind's all knocked out of her sails. She's bruised and stunned and bewildered. All things Casey has no idea how to be.

“The truth is, Jerry, I was a crap wife. Don't say I wasn't, I know I was. I wasnever there for him was I? And I was always so hard on him.”

“That's you, Casey. And you're like that out of love.”

“How do you stand me?”

“Love. What else?”

“Well, you have to love me. With Graham I had to earn his love. And I couldn't. I just kept getting up in his face, trying to manage him, knocking down his ideas. That's why he left me, I couldn't let him be who he was.”

“Who he was was a lazy, self-absorbed kid.” It's only sort of true, but it's what I think she needs to hear right now. “Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy. I liked him – before he dumped my sister – he's dirt now of course. But I liked him at the time, he was fun, he was always up for a good time. But he also had the worse case of Peter Pan Syndrome ever. He had no idea how to grow up.”

“I shouldn't have tried to make him.”

Maybe not. I keep that to myself for now. “He didn't know what he had.”

“Oh, listen to me, Jerry. You have enough on your plate. I shouldn't be burdening you with this. You're not the guy.”

“I am the guy. What the hell else use are brothers? I can't fix your car, and you can fix your own computer. Anyways, I could use someone else's problems.” Mine come with a terrifying expiry date. They cause me to sit up awake at night sometimes, shocked into the reality of it, staring it hard in the face with no defences. Life, daily routine, other thoughts: they all kick in swiftly enough. But before that, there's this stark moment, where the darkness gets right inside me and I remember that there isn't a cure, not for me – this empty, cold thing out there is coming for me - probably soon - and there's nothing that can stop it. So, yeah: someone else's problems can help take the edge off.

“It's just...” and she hesitates, “I mean I love him, and I do miss him. But it's just... I keep thinking, what if there's nobody else for me? What if I'm old and ugly, prickly and set in my ways? Who's going to want me now?”

“Any guy with a brain.”

“I don't think so...”

“Any man with eyes.”

“Oh, not any more...”

“Or with tastebuds.”

She laughs a little bit. “Don't.”

“You're a catch.”

“I'm a hag.”

“I'm your brother. If you were a hag I'd tell you about it.”

I can always get a laugh out of her, even if it's only a little one, and she does her best to hold it in. “You!” she says. “I'm letting your lunch burn. Let go of me.” And like that the barriers are up, a sort of smile is back in place, she has her armour on again and her attention on my food. Leftover potatoes get covered in cheese and paprika. A few chives get added to the eggs and beans mixture, she swirls in a little bit of Worcestershire sauce. “There,” she says, “now eat the lot.”

We eat. We talk about Mum and Dad. We talk about a fussy old teacher at our old school. She goes into my fridge for ice-cream and frozen plums. The plums get cooked up with cinnamon and lemon juice, and we sit on the couch eating those. It's a hell of a day out there, wind raging and intermittent downpours that turn the street outside into a brief river. So we wrap up in blankets, put some DVDs on, break open the chips and lemonade. We sit back in the couch with her head leaning up against my shoulder, just like when we were kids. We both know there might not be many days like this left to us.

“We're going to be all right,” I lie to her.

She kisses my forehead. “Of course we are.”