Every Seven Years by Denise Mina Page B

had cancer but
got better and now they run marathons,
climb mountains, have second lives. Mention
of cancer prompts happy stories, as
if people feel jinxed by the word and need
to rebalance the narrative. I’ve learned
that you can’t make them stop with the
positive anecdotes. They need them. No
one here can believe that my mother is
going to die anymore than I can. My
mother is an unfinished song. It’s out of
character that she will simply die of an illness.
My mother has never done a simple
thing.
    But they know that’s why I’m back on
the island, in the small town of my birth,
standing on a rostrum with Karen Little,
listening to interminable clapping.
    I mouth “thank you” again and watch
the fat kid’s mother pull him onto her
knee. He looks forward, flush from his
run. Behind him the mother shuts her
eyes and kisses his hair with a gesture so
tender I have to look away.
    Karen cornered me in the chemist’s. Do
come, Else, please. We would be so glad to
hear from you, all your exciting experiences!
Karen covers her loathing with
smiles. They all do. Anywhere else we
would have been excluded, picked on.
Maybe they would have burnt crosses on
our lawn. The hostility would have affected
our day-to-day interactions, but the
island is small, we are so dependent on
each other for survival, that instead, aggression
is a background thrum in a superficially
pleasant existence.
    Tourists fall in love with the white
beaches and palm trees. The seeds are
washed up here on the Gulf Stream and
palm trees grow all over the island. The
landscape looks tropical until you step off
the coach or out of the hotel or from your
rented car. It is bitterly cold here. The vegetation
makes it perpetually unexpected. The distillery towns are always dotted
with startled tourists from Spain or Japan,
all looking for a sweater shop. That’s what
we’re famous for: whisky and sweaters.
    Karen is tired of watching me being applauded.
It’s dying out anyway, so she
steps in front of me and blocks my sight
lines.
    Thank you! Her voice is shrill. Thank
you to our local celeb, Miss Else Kennedy!
    She has prompted another round of
applause. Oh, god. My right knee buckles,
as if it knows this will never end and it’s
decided to go solo and just get the hell out
of here.
    Karen turns to address me. Her face is
too close to mine. She has lipstick on, it is
bleeding into a dry patch of skin at the
side of her mouth, and I can smell it; she’s
close. I feel as if she’s going to bite my face
and it makes me want to cry.
    We have a present for you!
    She is smiling with her teeth apart looking
from me to the audience. Something
special is coming, I can see the venom
spark in her eye like the flick of a serpent’s
tail.
    Karen’s voice continues to trill through
my fog of grief and annoyance. Special
gift! It will be presented by —— Marie! (I
wasn’t listening to that bit).
    â€”— Marie is also a bit scary looking.
She has an unusually big face, her hair is
greasy. She climbs up onto the platform
holding a yellow hardback with both
hands. She looks as if she’s delivering a sacred
pizza.
    I know this isn’t a surreal dream. It’s just
work-a-day grim and I’m bristling with
shock and sorrow. My mum died. I feel
the glass bounce me backwards on the
decking.
    â€”— Marie takes tiny steps to get to
me, the rostrum isn’t big enough for three
people and I’m making the best of it, a
professional smile is nailed to my face.
    But then I see what is in her hand.
    It’s the book. My smile drops.
    Karen’s voice is loud in my ear.
    A lovely book about the famous painter:
Roy Lik-Tin-Styne! This is, believe it or
not! The very last book Else took out of
our library! Isn’t that fun? And Anne-Marie is going to present it to her as a memento
of this lovely visit!
    Karen turns and looks straight at me,
giving a loud and hearty laugh. HAHAHA!
she