My Prince

I always thought it was weird that you could hear the rain before you saw it. What begins as a small pit, pit, pit against roofs of cars or buildings soon becomes a wall of water in a matter of seconds. But you always hear it running towards you on the pavement. And at that moment, the saying “When it rains, it pours” had never been so literal.

I walked out of Kensington’s gates in a daze. I didn’t even feel the rain soaking my clothes. I didn’t even recognize if it was cold or not. It must have been. It was only the first week of April. I wished this were all an elaborate April Fool’s joke. Sure seemed like one.

I forced my legs to move forward each step. I have to make it to the tube and back to work. I have to – I have to tell everyone…

It’s liver cancer, she said. Terminal. The sentence echoed around my now-empty-feeling brain.
Somehow I made it back to Buckingham. I didn’t remember scanning my Oyster or stepping onto a train, but I made it.

I knocked on William’s door, and he called for me to enter.

He stared at me oddly until I realized too late that I was still soaked.

“No umbrella?” he joked, but when he sees my ghostly expression, his smile fades. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t – I don’t know–” I mumbled, unsure how to even form everything into words.

“Come in, Carolina.” He stood from his desk and walked around it, helping me into a chair. “Is everything all right? Is it the Prince?” When I finally am able to read his expression, I see pure terror. He probably thinks there’s been some attack. He’s about ready to call in an emergency when I place a quick hand on his arm to stop him.

“The Prince of Wales is fine, William.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

I tell him what my mother told me – she’s at late stage liver cancer, far too late to do any treatments. She sits on a transplant list, but with her history and background, the odds are slim to none.

“She’s been admitted to The Shakespeare Hospice in Stratford-upon-Avon,” I concluded. My voice didn’t sound like mine.

William’s face is brimming with pity, but I don’t want it. For so long, I pushed my mother away and now… I’m sad? She was never much of a mother to begin with, but that phone call shattered something inside of me I didn’t know existed anymore.

“You take as much time as you need off, Carolina,” William finally said. “Definitely take the rest of the day. I’ll give your photos to Jude to complete.” Another pause. “Miss Pearson, I know you and your mother weren’t close… but I think you should see her.”

I only nod my head. “I know.” Better late than never, eh?

William slips the camera bag’s strap off my shoulder. When I stand, he surprises me by pulling me into a deep hug. I don’t think I cried yet – it was hard to tell tears from rain outside – but I squeeze my eyes shut and let a couple fall.

When he let me go, he said in the softest tone, “Take a week, a month – however long you need, yeah? Your job will be here waiting for you. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Thank you,” I croaked.

The rain outside let up a bit by the time I exited the palace. I called Pip on my way to the tube station to give her the news. She offered to leave work but I convinced her to stay. I told her I wouldn’t leave until the morning anyway, so I’d see her back at the flat that evening.

Back at my flat, I stared at my empty suitcase for fifteen minutes. I hadn’t been back home for close to a year. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone for. I didn’t know how much to pack. I didn’t want to pack, and I really didn’t want to go back home. But I knew I had to. Plus, this distance would be ideal. I wouldn’t have to see Harry’s face, even though the image of his panic was stuck in my mind forever.


Stop thinking a
bout him.

I can’t.

He’s not the priority.

Neither is she.

She is right now.

I didn’t even realize how late it was until Pippa’s keys were scratching at the door and it swung open.

“Oh, babe,” she cooed, dropping her keys and bag and wrapping me in a hug. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

I mechanically hugged her back and said, “Thanks.”

“You need help?” She pointed to the empty suitcase.

In reply, I sigh and slump down onto my mattress. “I don’t even know what to pack.”

“Well, it’s beginning to get warmer so maybe just a few light jumpers and–”

“That’s not what I mean, Pip. I mean… I don’t even know how long I should go. A week? A month? How long does it take to put someone’s affairs in order? How strange of a saying is that – put someone’s affairs in order. What does it even really mean?”

“Whoa, okay, calm down there,” she said, turning to me and placing her hands on my arms. “Sit down.”

Robotically, I sat on the edge of the bed.

“You should always pack more than you think you might need, yes? It’s better to have too much than too little. I’ll help.”

We took the next two hours filling the suitcase to the brim. In true Pip style, she was adding more things well into the night that she thought I might need. I was still in a daze so she cooked us both dinner, made me some tea, and shuffled me off to bed early enough to catch the morning train.

For the entire three-hour journey north the following morning, I couldn’t sit still. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Nothing felt right. Sitting on the seat felt like I was doing nothing, and I felt like I should be doing something. I tried playing soft, instrumental music through my earphones but nothing worked to calm me down. I was anxious to arrive, yet dreading it at the same time. I didn’t know what to expect when I got there.

I had about a dozen texts through the night and into the next day from Jude, wondering how I was and if I was holding up all right. I didn’t respond to any, mostly because I had no idea how to respond. I didn’t know my emotions. I felt everything yet numb at the same time.

When the train arrived at the Stratford-upon-Avon station, I dragged my suitcase off as slowly as I could. I hadn’t stepped on the concrete platform in what felt like years. Of course, the air was the same as in London, but everything felt different here. It was always so quiet compared to the city.

I knew the first thing I had to do, and I dreaded that more than anything.

I had to go home.

I lugged my suitcase the ten-minute walk from the station to the townhouse I called home for eighteen years. The familiar street brought back memories I wanted to keep at bay forever. Most of them consisted of me running away from our house, tears welling in my eyes. Some of them were of me peering down this very road, on the phone with emergency services, wondering where the ambulance was when I thought my mother had overdosed. The neighbors hated when I did that.

It was one of those streets where every house is attached to the one next to it, and each one looked like an exact copy of the last. The only defining feature in each one was when a door was painted a different color or had different lace curtains in the window. I could always tell which one was mine – third from the last, on the left, with a red door that had begun to chip years ago. Now, it didn’t even look red. The door itself looked like, with one blow of wind, it would crumble in on itself.

I turned the key in the lock, surprised it still worked. I don’t even remember the last time I used it. Six months ago? A year? I was also surprised to see the door was even locked. Usually, she forgot to lock it.

Inside was as musty as ever. I didn’t miss the smell. She never opened the windows. She never bothered with heat or aircon; always mumbled something about companies stealing her money. The only ventilation the house ever received was her opening and closing the front or back doors. The smell of old cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, attaching itself to every surface.

I closed and locked the door behind me and switched on the lights. They flickered for a moment, but then the yellow light filled the doorway. It opened to a small hallway with carpeted, stained stairs leading up to the second floor. The door on the right lead to the decrepit kitchen that leads to the dining room and to the back door. The door on the left went into the living room and first-floor bathroom.

I climbed the stairs to the top floor, turned down the hallway past the bathroom and spare bedroom – which had always instead been storage of random objects she never could seem to get rid of – to the familiar door at the end of the hall. I could spot it anywhere. It was covered with stickers and drawings I’d made when I was little. Over the top was a handwritten sign by me declaring for everyone to stay out. I remembered closing it for the last time when I moved out for uni all those years ago. I told myself I’d never come back. Besides the required holidays, I never did. Until now.

I turned the old, rusted knob and walked into the room. Everything was the same. The same pink bed sheets and quilted cover, the desk littered with photographs I took a lifetime ago. I chucked my luggage onto the bed and unpacked the entire thing. Really, I was buying time until I had to be at the care facility. Hospice just seemed like a cruel word. Nothing about it seemed comforting.

I went back downstairs to look in the kitchen for food. I didn’t want to touch anything – every inch was covered in some sort of grime or dust. It didn’t look like anyone had been in the kitchen in months. Maybe she hadn’t.

I cracked open the fridge and frowned. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was completely empty. I guess I should have been glad I didn’t find some old, rotting food. But there wasn’t even a pint of ice cream in the freezer. It was almost noon, and my stomach was grumbling.
I reached under the sink and pulled out the plastic Tesco bags. I grabbed my purse again from upstairs and walked to the Tesco up the road. I guess one upside to living outside of a city was that the grocery stores were so much bigger. Since I didn’t know how long I’d be staying, I stocked up on all the foods I could fit in the two bags. I also bought a few cleaning supplies. If I was going to be staying in that god-forbidden house, I may as well try and make it presentable for whoever would buy it next.

After I ate lunch, I knew it was time. I couldn’t procrastinate any longer. I searched for the location of the hospice and was disappointed it was only a 20-minute walk away. I spent the time on the walk wondering what I would say to her. What could I say to her? I had nothing to apologize for – she made my life a toxic hell; I had to escape. Turning around and coming back just never seemed like an option available to me. It would only cause a spiral of events. Someone needed to break the cycle. I wasn’t sorry it was me.

Through the trees beginning to bud for spring, I could see the building with the sign reading “THE SHAKESPEARE HOSPICE” on the side. I followed the signs for the entrance and paused for a second outside the front doors.

Walk in. Do it.

Inside, I knew, everything would change. From here on out, my life was going to be different. Soon, I’d be an orphan. Well, sort of. I had no clue the whereabouts of my father nor did I care. I didn’t even remember what he looked like anymore. Maybe he was dead.

I walked through the doors, and a lady with a kind face greeted me. “Hi, can I help you?”

I glanced around the room. It looked like a regular urgent care waiting room. Yellow walls, inspirational posters, old magazines on tables with unknown stains and watermarks. It smelled like bleach.

“I’m looking for Mary Pearson,” I replied.

“Alright, give me one second to look her up. Are you family?”

I nodded. “Uh, yeah. I’m her daughter.”

“Can I just have you sign in here, please?” She pointed to the clipboard in front of her and handed me a pen.

I scribbled down my name and the time of my arrival. She also handed me one of those large stickers that said, “HELLO, MY NAME IS _________” along with the logo of the hospice.

“Right, so–” she peered down at the sign-in sheet “–Carolina, your mother does have a few outstanding fees that will need to be taken care of before the month is out, but you don’t have to worry about those now since it’s only the beginning of the month. I can give you those papers when you leave if you want.” I nodded. She pulled out a paper anyways, but it didn’t list numbers on it. “This is a map of the grounds.” She took the pen I had just used and pointed it on a spot. “Your mother’s room is 007, so right down that hallway. Take a right, and it’ll be the second on the left. Visiting hours are until 5, unless under special circumstances.” She didn’t have to say what those “special circumstances” where – death. “Do you have any questions?”
“I’m sorry, you said she has outstanding fees?”

The woman nodded. “Yes, but you don’t have to worry about those right now.” I knew she was trying to be polite, especially under the circumstances of her job at a hospice, but her smile was driving me insane.

“I’m just confused. How long has she been here? If she only just got here, how­–”

“Oh.” Her smile finally fell. But now that it did, I wanted nothing more than for it to be back. She looked sad. “I’m-I’m so sorry, I thought you knew. Mrs. Pearson has been here since the beginning of last month.”

A rock fell in my stomach. She’d already been here an entire month. Who knew how much longer she would have? I figured she had called me when she first got here. But… she had been here an entire month already. I didn’t know much about hospices, but I knew they were the last stop for anyone who was admitted. They didn’t tend to last long.

“Of course I knew,” I lied. “I just assumed the NHS would take care of it.”

She smiled sweetly again, but smaller this time. “Some, not all, I’m afraid.”

I swallowed, nodded, and took the directions she gave me to her room. I turned right at the end of the hall, and sure enough, I saw the room number 007 greeting me two doors down. The door was closed, which I was thankful for. It gave me the time to pluck up enough courage to reach for the handle and turn it.

What I saw almost made me gasp. The woman in the bed, I knew, was my mother but looked nothing like her. I had Googled the effects of liver cancer, but nothing could prepare you for the real thing. Her skin was a sickly yellow color, her hair was greasy and matted, probably from not being able to shower from feeling ill or having too little strength, and, most surprising of all, her abdomen. Whereas I expected her to be skin and bones, her abdomen was abnormally swollen. She looked nothing like the mother I knew. I even double-checked the room number to make sure this was the right one. It was.

I trepidatiously walked into the room. She was asleep, and I didn’t want to wake her. I didn’t want her to see the horrified look on my face. She had all sorts of IVs stuck in her, along with an oxygen line and a feeding tube leading into her nose. Her mouth was slightly parted in her sleep state. I noticed her lips were chapped. Something about this room felt suppressing, despite the large window and brightly colored walls.

I set my bag down on the floor and grabbed a chair to pull closer to her. I didn’t want to touch her, still afraid of what I saw. I watched her chest rise and fall, just to make sure she was still alive.

I hardly noticed when a man walked into the room until he spoke my name.

“Carolina?”

When I looked up, I noticed the familiar face looking down at me. I didn’t know what emotion I was expressing, but it quickly changed to shock.

“Callum?” I gasped. “What are you doing here?” I asked, stupidly.

Callum was someone I knew growing up in primary and secondary school. We dated for a couple of years on and off before we both parted ways for uni. We hadn’t spoken since. Now, here he was, wearing a doctor’s lab coat and holding a clipboard.

“I work here,” he replied. Duh. “It’s good to see you.” He offered a kind smile – one, I found, I could not return, no matter how much I wanted to.

I fumbled for words. “I, uh, yeah, you too. Wait – you’re a doctor? Shouldn’t you still be in school?”

“Sort of. I still am. I just started vocational training here in autumn.”

“Wow, that’s-that’s great. Good for you.” I attempted a smile. It was weakly received.

He stared at me for another second before shaking his head slightly. “So, um, Mary – your mother – is one of my patients. Car, I’m so sorry.”

I glanced down at her decrepit figure and shook my head. “No, don’t be. This was a long time coming,” I muttered lowly. I kept my eyes off of him. I knew the look he was giving me. I didn’t want the pity.

“She’s on some heavy sedatives for the pain, but I could wake her if you want?”

I sat back in the chair, shaking my head again. “No, that’s alright.”

“Listen, I know you probably want some time. Whenever you’re ready, we can have the talk about where to go from here.”

I look back up at him. “What do you mean?”

He looked a bit uncomfortable. He shifted his weight on his feet, glanced at my mother, and then back at me. “I mean, just the logistics. The update on her health, what the protocols are, all those types of things.”

I pursed my lips into a thin line. I pressed them tightly together, it almost hurt. Almost.

“We can now if you want,” I said. “How long does she have?”

Callum pulled over another chair to sit on the other side of the bed from me. “Well, since she was diagnosed last November–”

“Wait, November?” I gasp.

“Yes,” he answers slowly, unsure.

“I had no idea,” I whisper, looking over at her unconscious figure again. She had been sick for months, and she said nothing. Then again, I didn’t call her either. Not even on Christmas Day.
“Like I said, we can talk about this another time if you want.”

I looked away from her before I let the tears form. “No, let’s do this now. I need to be prepared.”

He was staring at me, probably debating whether or not to speak. Eventually, he began, “She was diagnosed last November with stage four liver failure. End-stage, as it sometimes is called.
Considering she’s held on this long says something about her, I think.” I scoff. He ignores me. “However, seeing her health now, I’d say it’s not much longer. A week, maybe two at best. We’re keeping her comfortable, so she doesn’t feel any pain.”

Lucky her, I wanted to say.

“What happens… after?” I asked.

He didn’t have to ask me to specify. He knew what I was asking about. “We’ll send her to the funeral home of your choice, where you can decide the steps from there. Do you know if she has a Will?”

I let out a small, sad laugh. “I haven’t a clue. I don’t think she even has one if I’m to be honest. She doesn’t seem the type.”

Callum gives a curt nod. “Then it’s up to you to decide what to do when the time comes.”

I run a hand over my face, rubbing my eyes deeply. “Great,” I say sarcastically.

I keep my hand over my face. I don’t want to cry. I don’t even love the woman. But something attaches me to her. She is my mother, after all. At one point, I’m sure, there was love between us. I don’t hear Callum get up or leave, so I assume he’s still in the room, silently watching me.

“I can help, if you want,” he said softly.

I removed my hands. I saw the pity on his face I didn’t want to see. “Thanks,” I offered in reply, then added, “but I’ll be fine.”

“How have you been?”

He always had sweet eyes. They were the softest shade of blue. They reminded me of the wool scarf I got for Christmas one year when I was eight. I wore that scarf every day that winter. I was so glad it was a deep shade of blue because it became ratty rather quickly from its everyday use.

He was a thickly built man since he played rugby every year in secondary school. I imagined he continued to play at uni, too. After our final and official break up, I knew I would miss his arms the most. They always seemed to fit around me perfectly. He would kiss my shoulder when he thought I was asleep. He always loved running his fingers through my hair. He was the warmth I needed; the warmth I never had at home. I guess, in a way, he was my home during those times.

“I’ve-I’ve been fine,” I stuttered, trying to put the old memories out of my mind. I had to look away from him and focus on a loose strand of string on my coat.

“I hear you’ve been living in London. How’s that?”

I laughed. “Hard.” I paused. “My flatmate, Pippa Wellington, you remember her, right? – God bless her – has a stable job so she’s been paying the brunt of the bills. But I actually just got a real job for the first time, so I hope to change that soon.”

“Oh yeah?” He sounded genuinely excited, so I had to look up. His smile was blooming, accentuating his tiny dimples in his cheeks. I guess I always had a thing for guys with dimples. “What job is that?”

For some reason, I started going red. “Um, I’m actually working for the palace. I’m one of the royal photographers.

Callum sat back quickly in his chair as if someone knocked him back. “What! That’s amazing! Have you met the family, then?”

The string on my jacket had never been so interesting as that point. I was doing anything not to meet his eyes. I had been successful up until now about not thinking of Prince Harry. “Yeah, I have. I’m Prince Alfred’s photographer, actually. Weird, huh?”

“That’s…” He shook his head. “That’s amazing, Car. Really. I’m proud of you.”

I nodded, finally glancing up at him. “Hey, you too, you know. You’re a doctor! Like, a proper doctor.”

“Almost,” he adds, cheekily.

“Almost,” I said, raising my hands. “Sorry. Almost a doctor. Last I recall, you wanted to be a musician.”

“Yeah well…” He trailed off, glancing down into his lap. “Strange how things change, huh?”

“Yeah.”

An awkward silence fell between us then. I wondered if he was thinking about our past as well. The nights I would come running to his house, tears streaming down my cheeks because I couldn’t afford dinner and my mother was passed out.

He cleared his throat suddenly and stood from the chair. “Listen, I’ve got a few other patients to get to. If you’re free, we could grab a drink tonight or sometime? I have a feeling we have a lot to catch up on.”

I nodded, more enthusiastically than I intended. “Yeah, of course. I’d love to.”

“It’s good to see you, Car. I’m sorry it’s under these types of circumstances.”

I stood from my chair, and we awkwardly shook hands over the bed. “Good to see you, too, Callum.”

“I’ll call you,” he said as he exited the room.

I wondered if he really would.

Notes