Audrey knew all too well the effects of those therapies. Once upon a time she had been told they might work miracles. Sometimes, in her darker moments and against her rational judgment, she found herself wondering whether perhaps, given time, they might have done.

It was more than that, though. Audrey might not allow the admission to hover on the surface of her thoughts for too long but it was always there. She didn’t deserve treatment. Whatever help the doctors might be able to offer, whatever temporary miracles they might be able to perform, Audrey felt she was the last person in the world who actually deserved them.

“Thank you. But I won’t change my mind about the treatment. I’m sure of that.”

“Well, there’s no rush. Let the news settle and we’ll discuss it again next week.”

Audrey rose and shook Dr. Sharma’s outstretched hand, felt the doctor’s soft, youthful skin beneath her fingers. She felt an arm around her shoulders as the home-care nurse guided her through to the waiting room and lowered her into a chair as though the muscles in Audrey’s legs might not be able to negotiate the maneuver, then left to order a taxi.

Audrey leaned her head against the wall, her temples throbbing.

Four to six months. She pulled out her diary and began leafing through the pages, counting down the weeks and months until her time might run out. And the act of looking at dates, willing them to tell her a different story, took her back to a scene from years before, when she had similarly wished that time could be more on her side.

Chapter 13

April 1972

Audrey sits on the edge of her bed beneath a poster of Aretha Franklin, frantically turning the pages of her diary, urging them to give her a different answer. She flicks back through the weeks—one week, then two, a third, and then a fourth. A fifth whips past her fingers and still she has to press on. Past the sixth until there it is, seven weeks previously. Practically a lifetime ago.

She stares at her own unintelligible scribble, the shorthand her mum has taught her to mark this monthly event, unreadable to anyone else who may chance upon her diary.

Seven weeks and somehow she hasn’t realized until now.

She continues to stare at the open page in front of her, as though the strength of her gaze might have the power to alter history. She notices that her hands are shaking and tries to hold them steady, but it is as if they are a separate entity over which she has no control. She is eighteen, and it seems surreal to her that only a few minutes ago she could have described how her life might pan out over the next three years yet now she is unsure how to manage the next three minutes.

She lifts her head and looks toward the net curtains, notices the tired gray tinge to the thin white material. She remembers she had promised her mum she would take them down and wash them during the school holidays, a promise she has failed to keep.