Chapters (48)
- Cover
- Praise
- About the Author
- Also by Tricia Stringer
- Title Page
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgements
- Excerpt
- One
She turned back to the bench and this time managed to wrench the lid off the wretched container. The ever-practical Milt had determined all would be well. How could he know that? The words bubbled inside her, wanting to come out, but she swallowed them as Bree arrived in the kitchen.
Later, in bed, staring up at the ornate rose in the centre of the ceiling, all she could think of was the bloody anomaly and Milt’s assurance it would be nothing. An assurance he had no authority to give, but she accepted now that he was trying to be positive and she appreciated the sentiment. Tonight he didn’t read as he usually did before sleep. He flicked out the light, slid his hand into hers and gripped it tight. They lay side by side, enveloped in silence, thinking about tomorrow.
Four
Four
Natalie’s knees were like jelly as she put her feet to the floor. The room that housed the ultrasound was warm and airless. The sonographer had apologised. Their aircon wasn’t working properly and the day outside unusually warm for late May. Natalie had been lying on the vinyl bed for so long that perspiration had soaked the back of the gown they’d provided. In the small cubicle her skin was clammy and her fingers were useless trying to do up her bra. She gave up, stuffed it in her handbag and pulled on her loose-fitting shirt. All she wanted to do was get out of this place as fast as she could.
She made her way along the corridor, past closed doors to other cubicles, other rooms with diagnostic machines, serious-faced technicians and specialists handing out life-changing diagnoses. She moved faster.
Her anomaly had been a cyst, nothing sinister the specialist had assured her once the sonographer had called him to check her ultrasound results. A needle biopsy had also been done but he said he was confident the result would be the same. It wasn’t cancer. She felt lightheaded with relief. During the long drive to Adelaide, the wait for the appointment after they’d arrived far too early, the tests and the serious faces peering at screens, Natalie had lived her life over and over again, thinking about all the highlights: her childhood, her marriage to Milt – not all of it great but it had given her their three beautiful daughters – her teaching career, the work she did on the property and in her community. She halted and shot a hand to the wall to steady herself. She’d been lucky, with few major catastrophes, but lying on that vinyl table waiting for the specialist to come and give his deliberation, she’d been hit by a ghastly thought: was this all there was to life?