“Chinese, I think. Or pizza.”

She shudders. “Right, get in that shower and get dressed. I’ve made an appointment with your oncologist and I don’t want us to be late.”

“Jesus, Mum, I’m not five. I don’t need you to make my doctor’s appointments for me.”

“Well, someone had to.” She sits down beside me and takes my hands in hers. “I know you’re scared. But you have to let them try and fight this, Ava. You have to give it everything they’ve got.”

“I’m not scared. I’m terrified.”

“Oh, my baby girl,” she whimpers and pulls me in for a hug. “I know. And if I could swap places with you I would, in a heartbeat. But we just have to do what we always do, OK? We have to put one foot in front of the other and we have to carry on, not give up. We just have to try whatever we can to prove them wrong, to buy you some time. Because who knows when a cure will be found. New drugs are invented every day.”

“I just don’t know if I can go through it all again, Mum. It was hard enough the first time.”

“I know. I know it was. But you’re not alone. We’re all here for you, all of us. Your friends and family. And if you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for us. We need you here. Your father’s barely eaten a thing since your birthday party. All those leftovers just going to waste.” She looks around the room again and frowns unhappily.

“I’ve been thinking that it might be a good idea for you to move back in with your father and me, so we can look after you.”

“And give up this place?”

She snorts. “News flash: it’s hardly the Taj Mahal.”

“I like my little flat,” I protest.

“Oh, darling. It’s grotty, admit it. Even the cockroaches take one look and leave. I hate the thought of you being here all alone. Come home and I promise I won’t fuss.”

I tilt my head to one side and give her “a look.”

“OK,” she admits. “I’ll probably fuss, I can’t help it. It’s what mothers do. But I’ll try not to go over the top.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say to mollify her.

“OK. I won’t pressure you. Well, not much. And you’ll come see the doctor?”

“Yes. I’ll go and see what he has to say.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Now get in that shower, seriously. You stink.”

I’m in the shower when a thought occurs.

“Mum,” I holler.

She opens the door and sticks her head around. “What?”

“Aren’t seahorses the same shape upside down?”

She looks surprised and draws an S shape in the air with her finger. “I think you’re right.”

“Told you those magazines are full of shit.”

She gasps. “Blasphemy.”

“It’s really not.”

We go back to Dr. Harrison, my tail between my legs, and I ask him to help me. He comes up with a treatment plan that works for us both. I refuse the same chemotherapy I had last time—fat lot of good it did, as it turns out—but agree to try an oral chemotherapy drug.