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The Last Days of Rabbit Hayes

St. Martin's Press

Rabbit

Outside, pop music played, a child squealed with delight and a bearded man holding a 'Walk with Jesus' placard danced a jig. The leather seat felt warm against Rabbit's skin. The car rolled forward, forming part of a slow and steady stream of traffic snaking through the city. It's a nice day, Rabbit thought, then slipped into a doze.

Molly, Rabbit's mother, looked from the road to her daughter, taking one hand off the steering-wheel to adjust the blanket covering the thin, frail body. Then she stroked the closely shaved head.

'It's going to be OK, Rabbit,' she whispered. 'Ma's going to fix it.' It was a bright April day and forty-year-old Mia 'Rabbit' Hayes, beloved daughter of Molly and Jack, sister of Grace and Davey, mother of twelve-year-old Juliet, best friend to Marjorie Shaw and the one true love of Johnny Faye's life, was on her way to a hospice to die.

When she'd reached their destination, Molly came to a slow stop. She turned off the engine, pulled up the handbrake, then sat for a moment or two, focusing on the door that led to the unwanted and unknown. Rabbit was still sleeping and Molly didn't want to wake her because as soon as she did their terrible short future would become the present. She thought about driving on but there was nowhere to go. She was stuck. 'Fuck,' she whispered, and gripped the steering-wheel. 'Fucking fuck sticks, screwing, shitting, frigging, fucker fuckness. Oh, fuck.' It was clear that Molly's heart was already smashed to pieces but the fragments were scattering with every 'fuck' that tripped off her tongue.

'You want to drive on?' Rabbit asked, but when her mother looked her way, her eyes were still closed.

'Nah, just wanted to curse for a while,' Molly said.

'Good job.'

'Ta.'

'I particularly liked "fuck sticks" and "fucker fuckness".'

'They just came to me,' Molly answered.

'Keepers,' Rabbit said.

'You think so?' Molly pretended to ponder while placing her hand back on her daughter's head and stroking it again.

Rabbit opened her eyes slowly. 'You're obsessed with my head.'

'Soft,' Molly mumbled.

'Go on, then, give it another rub for luck.' Rabbit turned to the double doors. So this is it, she thought.

Molly rubbed her daughter's head once more, then Rabbit removed her hand and held it. They stared at their interlocking fingers. Rabbit's hands looked older than her mother's. Her skin was flaky and paper thin, riddled with raised and broken veins, and her once beautiful long fingers were so thin they seemed almost gnarled. Her mother's were plump, soft and, with perfectly painted short nails, pampered.

'No time like the present,' Rabbit said.

'I'll get a wheelchair.'

'You will not.'

'No way.'

'Ma.'

'No way.'

'Ma, I'm walking in.'

'Rabbit Hayes, you have a broken bleedin' leg. You are not walking in.'

'I have a stick and I have you and I am walking in.'

Molly sighed heavily. 'Right, bloody right. If you fall down, I swear to God I'll —'

'Kill me?' Rabbit grinned.

'Not funny.'

'Kinda funny?'

'Fuck-all funny,' Molly said, and Rabbit laughed a little. Her mother's curses upset many, but not her. She found them entertaining, familiar and comforting. Ma was kind, generous, fun, playful, wise, strong and formidable. She'd take a bullet to protect an innocent, and nobody, not the tallest, strongest or bravest, messed with Molly Hayes. She didn't suffer fools gladly and she didn't give a toss about pleasing people. You either liked Molly Hayes or you fucked off. Molly got out of the car, and when she'd pulled the walking-stick out of the back seat, she opened the passenger door and helped her daughter to her feet. Rabbit faced down the double doors before, between her stick and her mother, she walked slowly and steadily into the reception area. If I walk in, I could walk out. Just maybe ... she thought.

Inside they took in the lush carpets, dark wood, pretty Tiffany lamps, soft furnishings and the shelf filled with books and magazines.

'Nice,' Molly said.

'More like a hotel than a hospital,' Rabbit added.

'Yeah.' Molly nodded. Stay calm, Molly.

'Doesn't even smell like a hospital.'

'Thank Christ for that,' Molly said.

'Yeah,' Rabbit agreed. 'I'm not going to miss that.'

They walked slowly towards a short-haired blonde woman, with a toothy Tom Cruise smile. 'You must be Mia Hayes,' she said.

'People call me Rabbit.'

The smile grew and the blonde woman nodded. 'I like it,' she said. 'I'm Fiona. I'm going to show you to your room and then I'll call one of the nurses to settle you in.'

'Thanks, Fiona.'

'A pleasure, Rabbit.'

Molly remained silent. She was doing her best to keep it together. It's OK, Molls. Don't cry, no more tears, just pretend the way they're pretending that all is well. Come on, ya mad auld one, just suck it up for Rabbit. It's going to be OK. We'll find a way. Do it for your girl.

The room was bright and comfortable, furnished with a pristine bed, a soft sofa and a reclining chair. The large window looked out onto a lush garden. Fiona helped settle Rabbit on the bed and, in a bid to escape the moment, Molly pretended to investigate the en-suite. She closed the door behind her and took a few deep breaths. She cursed herself for insisting on transferring Rabbit from the hospital to the hospice. Jack hadn't spoken since he'd received the news of Rabbit's impending demise. He needed to steel himself. He didn't have the stomach for it yet, and Rabbit didn't need to be minding anyone but herself. Grace had wanted to help but Molly was adamant. 'No fuss, she just needs to convalesce,' she'd said, lying out loud to herself and to anyone who would listen. Stupid old woman, she thought. They should be here.

'Are you all right, Ma?' Rabbit said, from behind the door.

'I'm grand, love. Jaysus, the bath is as big as Nana Mulvey's old galley kitchen. Do you remember that?' she asked, hearing her voice shake and hoping that Rabbit was too tired to notice.

'She's gone a long time, Ma,' Rabbit said.

'Yeah,' Molly agreed, 'and she spent more time in ours than we did in hers.'

'It's a good bath, though?' Rabbit asked. Molly knew that her daughter was aware of her struggle, which gave her the kick she needed to pull herself together.

'It sure is,' she said, emerging. 'You could drown in it.'

'I'll keep that in mind if things get too bad.' Rabbit laughed.

Rabbit had long ago accepted that Ma was the kind of person who, given the opportunity, would say the wrong thing at the wrong time, every time. There were countless examples of this, but one of Rabbit's favourites had happened many years ago: an old neighbour with a prosthetic hand had asked Molly how she was coping with her mother's death. Molly had replied, 'I'm not going to lie to ya, Jean, it's like losing me right arm.'

Once Rabbit was settled, Fiona left them to it. Rabbit had travelled in her nightwear and dressing-gown even though she'd originally planned to wear day clothes. Molly had brought an expensive pair of wide-legged jersey trousers and a cotton V-necked jumper from Rabbit's house to the hospital, but by the time she'd seen the consultant, received her meds from the pharmacy and been formally discharged, Rabbit had been too tired to change. 'I'm just bed-hopping anyway, Ma,' she'd said.

'It makes more sense to stay as you are,' Molly agreed, but it didn't make sense to her. None of it did. She wanted to scream and shout and rage at the world. She wanted to do some damage, overturn a car, set a church on fire and unleash hell. If I was just five per cent crazier, she thought. Molly Hayes was not in her right mind.

The previous day, an oncologist had sat Molly and her husband Jack down in a small yellow room that smelt of antibacterial soap. When they were settled in their seats, he had destroyed them with one sentence. 'We're looking at short weeks rather than long months.' The room fell into complete and total silence. Molly stared at the man's face and waited for the punch-line that never came. Jack remained motionless. It was as though life had just left him and he was slowly turning to stone. She didn't argue. The only two words she uttered were 'Thank you', when the oncologist booked Rabbit's place in the hospice. She felt the weight of Jack's stare. It was as though she was disappearing right in front of his eyes and he was wondering how he would navigate the new reality without his wife. Give me time to think, old man. They had no questions – at least, none that the man sitting opposite could answer.

The silence had allowed Molly to do some thinking of her own. It was time to retreat: she needed to arm herself with more information, and she had to come up with a plan, start a new conversation. She was not about to give up, no way. Rabbit Hayes might be dying but she was not going to die because Molly was going to find a way to save her. She wouldn't talk about it, just do it. In the meantime, she'd play the game. The clock was against them: Rabbit was slipping away. No time for talking.

Staying quiet was unusual for Molly, who liked to talk and battle things out even when she was full sure she wouldn't receive a conclusion or an answer. In the early days after Rabbit's diagnosis, she had often taken herself down to the church to abuse God. Prepared for no answers, she'd asked a lot of questions, shaking her fist at the altar and once even giving the finger to a statue of the Baby Jesus.

'Where's your deals now, God?' she had screamed, in her empty local church, one day a year before, when Rabbit's cancer had returned in her right breast and had metastasized into her liver. 'You want the second breast? Take it, you greedy bastard, but don't you dare take my girl. Do you hear me, ya —'

'Ah, there you are, Molly.' Father Frank had appeared out of thin air and pushed himself into the seat beside her. He rubbed his bad knee and put his hand to his grey hair, then knelt and leaned on the pew. She remained seated. He looked forward, saying nothing.

'Not now,' she'd said.

'I heard.'

'And ...'

'You're angry, and you wanted to give the Baby Jesus the finger.' He shook his head.

'How did you know that?' Molly asked, surprised and a little unnerved.

'Sister Veronica was polishing the tabernacle.'

'I didn't see her.'

'She's like a ninja, that one.' Now he rubbed his head. She wondered if he was getting a migraine – he suffered a lot with it. 'Molly,' he said, in a more serious tone, 'I understand.'

'No, you don't, Frank.'

'My mother died of cancer.'

'Your mother was ninety-two.'

'Love is love, Molly.'

'No, it isn't, and if you lived a life with love in it as opposed to simply preaching it, you'd understand that. You've never been a husband or father so, God love you, Frank, of all the people to try to comfort me, you really haven't a clue.'

'If that's the way you feel, Molly.'

'It is, and I'm sorry for it.' She got up, leaving Father Frank dumbstruck. She hadn't darkened the church door since. But Molly still prayed; she still believed.

Still, this emergency needed something more rational than prayer. She'd been researching Rabbit's condition for four years. She'd looked at all the studies, the new drugs, the various trials, and knew more about genetic mapping than a second-year laboratory student. There's something we haven't thought about, something we're missing. It's on the tip of me tongue. I just need to concentrate, work out the problem. It's going to be OK.

'What are you thinking about?' Rabbit asked.

'What I'll make for your daddy's tea.' Molly settled on the recliner.

'Just bring home a curry,' Rabbit suggested.

'He's getting a belly,' Molly said.

'Jaysus, Ma, he's seventy-seven! Give him a break!'

'I suppose I could give him a chicken curry with egg fried rice, and make him do four laps of the green afterwards.'

'Or you could just let him be.'

'Right, we'll settle on two laps.'

As she spoke, a dark-haired nurse, with a suspect tan and a nice neat bun, entered the room carrying a chart. 'Hiya, Rabbit, I'm Michelle. I just wanted to see if you were settling in and if we could go through your meds, once and once only. Then I promise I'll leave you to it.'

'No problem.'

'Great. So far so good?' she asked.

'Well, I'm still alive so that's a bonus.'

'People usually make it past the door,' Michelle said, and grinned.

'I like her,' Rabbit said to her ma.

'She's got a bit of shite to her, all right,' Molly said.

'And I take it having a bit of shite is a good thing?' Michelle asked.

'In our house it is,' Rabbit said.

'As the fuddy-duddy aristocrat said to his Jewish tailor, "Good-oh."' Michelle sat on the sofa. Rabbit and her mother caught each other's eye and smiled. Clearly a nutter.

'Any questions?'

'No.'

'Sure?'

'Yeah.'

'Well, I'll be here if you need me. Can we talk meds?'

'I'm on a Fentanyl patch, OxyNorm liquid, Lyrica and Valium.'

'Any laxatives?'

'Oh, yes! How could I forget?'

Michelle nodded towards Rabbit's leg. 'How's the wound post-surgery?'

'Fine. No sign of infection.'

'Good. So, the fracture was your first sign it had spread to the bones?'

'They were monitoring high calcium levels the week before.'

'How's your pain level now?'

'It's fine.'

'Keep me posted.'

'Will do.'

Michelle looked at her watch. 'Hungry?'

'No.'

'Well, we've got bacon and spuds on the menu in an hour.'

'Sounds repulsive.'

'Bite your tongue. We've got the best chefs this side of the Liffey here,' Michelle said, with mock disgust, then smiled. 'You need anything – a back rub, a foot massage, a manicure, physio for that leg of yours – ring your bell.'

'Thanks.'

'You're welcome.' She opened a window and left Molly to attend to her daughter's bedclothes.

When Molly had finished, she went back to the recliner, sat down and watched as Rabbit's eyes flitted between open and closed. 'Davey's on his way home, love. He'll drop in later if you're well enough,' she said.

'That's nice.' Rabbit was asleep almost before the words were out of her mouth.

Johnny

The past and Johnny often waited for Rabbit in sleep. That afternoon, in her dream, he was sixteen, tall, beautiful, his soft curly brown hair resting on his shoulders. She was her younger self, and twelve-year-old Rabbit was a very different-looking girl from the paper-thin ghost that lay in the hospice bed. She was tall for her age but so thin her mother worried that the large space between her legs would affect her gait. 'Walk in front of me, Rabbit,' she'd say, and then to her friend Pauline, 'Do you see what I'm sayin', Pauline? A toddler could jog through that gap.'

'Ah, not to worry, Molly. She'll fill in,' Pauline said, and she was right. Rabbit did fill in, but not for another three years, despite everything Molly cooked, baked and roasted in duck fat to add weight to her youngest child. Back then, Molly's mantra was a simple one.

'Rabbit, eat more. Grace, eat less. Davey, stop picking at your nose.'

Grace would complain and talk about unfairness, but Molly wasn't interested. 'You're big-boned like your ma. Big bones equal small servings, so if you want to be your best self, live with it.'

Grace would continue to complain, but Rabbit didn't feel sorry for her because, back then, when Rabbit was still so gawky, Grace was a real beauty. She had hips, breasts and luscious lips. She was a proper brunette with emerald-green eyes and, aged eighteen, Grace was a woman while Rabbit was still a child. Rabbit would often stare at Grace and wish, If only I could lose me eye-patch, fill out a bit, darken me hair and plump up me lips. If only I could look like me sister.

The eye-patch was gone by the time she'd hit ten but Rabbit, although beautiful in her own right, would never look like her sister. Her poor eyesight didn't help: the dark brown horn-rimmed spectacles dwarfed her tiny face. They were heavy and slipped down the bridge of her nose, so she spent a good deal of her time pushing them up. Sometimes, when she was thinking hard about something, she placed a finger on them, holding them tight against her face and scrunching her nose. Johnny was the first to call Mia 'Rabbit'. She insisted on wearing her long mousy brown hair in two high bunches at either side of her head. To him, those bunches looked like rabbit's ears and, with her glasses, she reminded him of Bugs Bunny in disguise.

Unwittingly, Johnny Faye was a trendsetter. If he decided patches were cool, within days everyone for miles wore patches. If he liked coats worn open and down to the ankles, or short silver jackets or woolly hats with diamonds, they became trendy without so much as a peep from the lads. It was simple. Johnny was cool so anything Johnny did, said or wore was cool. And when he coined the name Rabbit and Mia Hayes happily answered to it, everyone had followed suit within a week, including her own parents.

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Excerpted from The Last Days of Rabbit Hayes by Anna McPartlin. Copyright © 2014 Anna McPartlin. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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