The phone rings.  I am sitting in the lounge, spread out on the brown leather chaise, watching some awful program on TV.  I am bored and feeling a little down wondering why on earth I am watching this crap.

Jonathan runs through to the bedroom to answer the phone.  From the time we bought the house, the telephone jack in the lounge never worked.  So we run to the bedroom every time the phone rings.  The sound of Jonathan's voice tells me it is my dad.  Funny how we have a different voice for different people.  I am not really paying attention, although I know I don't really want to talk to Dad.  Conversations with him are never easy, and they are always lengthy.  Far better to stay here and watch crap.

Jonathan comes into the lounge, rubbing his chin in a way I have never seen him do before.  He looks odd.

"Lottie, it's your dad."

He hasn't brought the phone to me, which again is odd.  My heart rate quickens.

Looking back, I knew what was coming.  I walk through to the bedroom and pick up the phone.  It is still warm from when Jonathan had it.  I think I can even smell him on it.

"Hi Dad, how are you?" I say in my most upbeat voice.  Did I sound a little too eager?

"Hey Charley."

My name is Charlotte.  Most people call me Lottie. Except my dad.  Before he became sober thirty-odd years ago, he came home hammered one day.  I was the only one at home.and was surprised that Dad had come home so early.  He explained that he was trying to give up smoking and that in order to test his willpower he needed to get as drunk as possible.  He had done a good job on the drinking.  Not so much on the smoking.  A cigarette had almost burned itself out between his fingers.  He wreaked of alcohol and he must have noticed me inching away from him. 

"Don't tell your mom, Charley," he had said, trying to grab my arm.  He missed.  He had never called me Charley before.  No-one had ever called me Charley.  It stuck.  He remembered little from that evening - not the smashing plates, not the yelling, nor his five children cowering in my bedroom, but he remembered calling me Charley.  It is what he has called me ever since.  It is now a term of endearment, I guess.

"Dad, is something wrong?"  I have a knowing.  I know deep inside that I don't want to know the answer.

"Charley, it's your mom."

Mom has been sick for a couple of months now.  Laryngitis the doctors had told her.  A condition she has been afflicted with during winter for the last five or six years.  Three bouts of antibiotics had not cleared it.  I suddenly missed her voice.  I also felt sick.

"Has she been in an accident?"  I find myself hoping above all hope that she is in hospital with a few broken bones, like the time some asshole jumped out in front of us when we were driving home from Melbourne.  I had to swerve and hit another car.  Mom wasn't wearing a seatbelt and went flying through the windscreen.  Every rib had been broken along the sternum.  It would take her months before she could breathe without pain.

Please let it be like that.

"She had an x-ray on her lung today.  Charley, they found a shadow."

And there it was.  We all have them.  Moments in our lives when we know that, no matter what,  our lives will never be the same again.  Some are joyful, like losing our virginity to that guy we really really like, or the birth of our children, but others are terrifying, like the imminent death of a loved one.  I had already had a moment such as this when, 16 years prior, aged 25, my dad  had come to extract my sister and I from the cinema half way through a screening of "Mrs Doubtfire" to tell me that my first husband, Andrew, had drowned. 

As I crumpled to my knees in the middle of the street, a young girl watching me in horror as some gutteral scream emerged from my mouth, I knew my life would never be the same, and I knew it again now.

Immediately I start to hyperventilate.  I cannot breathe.  It feels like a thousand men are jumping on my chest and the air cannot reach my lungs.  I feel a blackness closing in.  I must have made some sound as suddenly I notice Jonathan is standing next to me, holding me.

I slump onto the bed.  Years of being a nurse tells me that my mom is going to die.

"Charley, are you there?  Charley?"

I try to focus. 

"I'm here Dad."  I try to take a deep breath.  A slight squeal slips out.  "Is it cancer?"

"We don't know.  The doctors say that mom has to go for a biopsy or something."

Silence.  I don't know what to say.  I'm fighting back not collapsing in a heap.  I know what the outcome will be.  I don't need a biopsy to tell me.  It is just a matter of how long she will have.  Why the fuck did I have to move to Australia?  Five years I have wasted without her.  Silent tears start to stream down my face.

"Is mom there, can I speak to her?"

I hear the muffle of the phone changing hands.

"Hello?"

God, her voice sounds so weak, so soft.  I miss her voice, her normal voice.  I miss the strength in her voice.  I miss the voice that has always steered me through troubled waters, celebrated with me during times of triumph and always loved me no matter what.  I choke on the thought of losing the one person in the world who truly loves me, accepts me and champions my journey.

"Mom? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine sweetheart."  The first of many lies to come.

"What did the doctor say?"

"All he said is that there is a shadow on the lung and that I will need to go for further tests."

"Do they think it's cancer?"  I need to know.

"He wouldn't say.  Perhaps not?"

Fucking doctors, they know cancer when they see it.  I want desperately to believe it isn't cancer.

"When are you having the biopsy?" I ask.

"They said that they will send me an appointment.  Soon, I am sure."

Fucking NHS.  Are they kidding me?  Mom has to wait for a fucking appointment?  I have an urge to throw the bedside lamp across the room.  I start shaking.  Jonathan hugs me tighter.

"Do you want me to come over, mom?"

"I don't know, it's probably just an infection."  I know in my soul she doesn't really believe that.

We talk some more and I tell her to rest.  I can't really remember the conversation.  All I want to do is get off the phone and google "Lung Cancer."

Mr Google tells me that by the time a person loses their voice, the lung cancer is inoperable and terminal.  In all but a rare few cases, prognosis is a couple of months to a maximum of a year.

I imagine saying goodbye to the beautiful light that is my mom.  I want so badly for this to be one big mistake.

Jonathan and I talk for a couple of days over what I should do.  I have ordered my mom to get onto the GP and to insist on an emergency appointment for the biopsy.  I move through the days in a state of thick fog.  I break down in my Sociology class which suddenly doesn't seem that important any longer.  I am losing my will to function.

Two days later and mom still hasn't been given an appointment.  She tells me that they have told her that they have put in a request for an emergency appointment but she hasn't heard anything.  An image of a clock the size of Big Ben enters my mind, tick, tock, tick, tock.  I start to feel like I can't breathe.

"I need to fly to the UK" I say to Jonathan.

"Are you sure you want to rush back there, love?  It could just be a really bad lung infection, or TB."

We have just finished renovating and extending our original 1960s 3 bed brick veneer home.  Money is tight.  The increase in our mortgate is making its presence felt.  I can see the conflict in Jonathan's eyes.  I certainly don't want to waste what little savings we have.

"Perhaps you are right," I say.

The next day, I phone my sister. 

"Are you okay, Pip?"  Phillipa is younger than I am, but a lot more independent and free spirited.  She was the rebel of the family, always walking to the beat of her own drum.  I am the eldest, and have always been the responsible, dependable one.  A role I have resented all my life.

"No.  Do you think it's cancer?"

I want to tell her the truth.  I am not sure she can handle it.  I know I can't.

"I'm not sure."

"Do you think we should be flying over?"  Pip lives in Singapore.  She escaped as soon as she could.  Left home when she was 16. Travelled the world trying to run from her past and find herself.  She has never found it.  Singapore is cheap.  I know any trip back to the UK will strap her of any spare cash she may have, if any.

"I don't know.  Have you spoken to Gregory and the twins?"

"No, I haven't, you?"

I haven't.  Gregory and I have never been close and the twins, well, they have each other.

"I think we should go, Lottie.  Mom would want us there.  You know dad, he won't cope with this shit."

I nod.  It is true.  Dad will be falling to pieces right now.

We agree to book tickets home and I say that I will phone Greg and the twins.  The conversation with Greg is as I imagine it would be - cold, detached. 

"I can't get too much time off," he says.

"Jesus, Greg, it's mom.  She might be dying, I think you can take time off your fucking high powered job for that."

He sighs.  Always feeling misunderstood for wanting to earn more money than God himself could provide.  He has never married.  Never wanted to.  He was married to his bank account.

"I'll do my best."

"Just book the flight." I order.

I'm tempted to ask him to speak to the twins, but think better of it.

"I'll phone the twins."

Martha answers the phone.

"Hey, Lottie!"  She sounds remarkably cheerful.

"Is Jen with you?" 

"No, she nipped out for some shopping.  We're having a party tonight."

A party?  A fucking party?

"Has someone spoken to you about mom?"

"Er, yes."  She sounds confused, and slightly defensive.

"Pip and I are flying to the UK to be with her.  Are you going to do the same?"

"Well, we weren't planning to.  You know what dad is like when we are all in the same house together.  Jen and I figured you would let us know when we absolutely need to be there."

I can't believe what I am hearing.  The twins are the youngest and have absolutely no sense of responsibility.  Dad had been sober a couple of years by the time they came along.  I think they were meant to be mom and dad's second chance at parenthood because they felt they had fucked it up the first time round.  They were right, they had.  But they didn't do a great job with the twins either.  They overindulged them.  The twins became demanding, expecting everything their way.  They never thought of anyone but themselves.  They were selfish.

"Martha, you and Jen had better get your asses on the fucking next plane to the UK.  Pip and I will see you there."  Their sense of entitlement had stood them in good stead.  They were both financially stable.

"Okay!  Sheesh Lottie."

Jonathan arrives home from work.  One look at me and he knows.  He nods his head.  I know it is money we can ill afford.  But I cannot risk not being with mom.  I cannot risk spending another minute from her.  The thread that binds us is weakening, getting ready to be broken and I am not ready to release myself from those strings just yet.

I pick up the phone.

"Hello? Yes, I would like to book a ticket to London, Heathrow please.  Leaving as soon as possible."

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