All for You

By Belle Brooks

"This is the book every single person on the planet must read once in their lifetime. The story will never leave you. I will never forget this book." ~ Jo

"I will breathe for you."

Some people's bodies are built to run marathons. Others to lift and labour. And some are made so graceful their footsteps are barely heard.
My body was built to be a vessel. It was always built for you.

Maybelline Connors knows stars are not always as faultless as they appear. She knows life is not permanently concreted into its foundations, and love can last a lifetime … even when a lifetime is shorter than one hoped.
May has only one thing left to fight for: her baby. And when the man you love's heart is breaking, it can be hard to find the beauty in those stars you once adored.

With life there is love … and with love there will always be life.

ALL FOR YOU is a highly emotional standalone by international bestselling author Belle Brooks. Grab your tissues and let your heart take over.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMA Publishing PTY LTD
• Release date: Jul 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9780648573302

Belle Brooks

Born in Australia, Belle Brooks has always had a passion for books and creative writing. She loves exploring the different ways stories can be told through the use of text and in-depth characters. Since she was a child her strong talent and interest in creative writing was evident, explaining that her favourite class in school was English. Despite her love for all things books, she decided the world of advertising and marketing was where she could put her talents to use in the business realm, well that is until now. Belle enjoys creative writing and creating fictional stories that leave a valued message inside the pages.

Book preview

Table of Contents

A NOTE TO THE READER

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

All for You

©2019 by Belle Brooks

Published 2019

ISBN 9780648573302

Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, JMA Publishing Pty Limited, Po Box 2302, Yeppoon QLD Australia 4703.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All rights are reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in past in any form. This edition is published in arrangement with JMA Publishing Pty Limited Q.L.D.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by

JMA Publishing Pty Limited

Po Box 2302

Yeppoon Qld 4701

AUSTRALIA

Cover design by Marisa at Cover Me Darling.

Editing Lauren Clarke

Proofread K.M. Golland

Formatting by Jaye Cox

For:

Natalya and Jakarra.

I love you both more than all the stars freckling the night sky.

Sisters for life xx

A NOTE TO THE READER

This book has been written using UK English and contains euphemisms and slang words that form part of the Australian spoken word, which is the basis of this book’s writing style.

Please remember that the words are not misspelled. They are slang terms and form part of everyday Australian vernacular.

Sterile white walls creep in on me as I walk through the hallway of the Wellington Medical Centre. Disinfectant and latex make a sickening perfume that reminds me of being unwell. Reminds me of death. Each step echoes loudly, the sound bouncing from left to right, causing me to automatically change my stride to that of a tiptoe.

Dr Brown.

I downcast my eyes to the piece of pink paper now damp from my perspiring hands.

Suite Five B.

Yes, Dr Taylor. I’m doing it now.

I startle at the sweet-sounding voice of another.

Hello. Can I help you? a woman in a pale blue shirt and navy skirt asks, stepping out from behind me.

Umm. Yes. I’m May Connors and I’m looking for Dr Brown’s rooms, Suite Five B. My eyes dart back to the paper before rebounding to hers, which gleam brightly, and offer a sense of comfort.

Hi, May, I’m Sister Fraya. How about I walk with you to Dr Brown’s rooms? Would you like me to do so?

Very much. The corners of my lips tug upwards. Thank God I’m no longer alone.

Are you new to the centre?

Yes, I am, I reply as we walk.

Well, you weren’t far from his suite. Only a few more doors and you would have found it all on your own. Her smile fills with kindness when she stops to eye me.

Thanks, I mumble, wrapping my hand around the metal door handle.

You’re welcome.

A sudden chill courses through my bones, and I shudder as I pull open the heavy door and step a toe inside a professionally presented reception area. A tall counter has a vase of brightly coloured flowers that catch my eye. The door nudges me forward as it closes, and I step in, hearing a cough from a woman sitting in one of the green chairs.

I’m not the only patient here. I hope it’s not going to take too long.

I finally work up the courage to approach the counter, and lay my arms slumped across it’s top. Hi, I’m Maybelline Connors. I’m here for my appointment at eleven a.m. with Dr Brown.

Yes, the receptionist replies, staring at the computer screen before her long fingers click against a mouse cupped in her hand. Maybelline, can you fill out these documents, please? She stands, handing over a plastic clipboard with a piece of paper secured to it before sliding a pair of glasses up onto her springy brown curls.

It’s just, May. I prefer to be called May.

Okay. She smiles.

Can I get a pen, please?

Of course. She smiles again, with lips stained a dark pink.

Thanks.

I plonk into a seat, place my bag on the floor and begin filling out the documents. Name, address, phone number, email address, and medical insurance details. Next is a list of boxes requiring a tick for any health conditions I may have. I feel blessed when my pen never meets the paper. You healthy thing, you. Go, May.

I’m concentrating so hard on the last part of the form that at first I don’t hear her call my name. A tap on my shoulder gets my attention.

The doctor is ready for you, she says. When did the receptionist leave her desk?

Oh. Okay. I’m rattled as I pass over the clipboard, and her warm fingers brush mine. Her accidental touch seems to lessen some of the nerves flipping in the pit of my stomach, and I kind of hope she’ll clasp my hand and shelter me even though I’m not sure why I need the protection. Maybe I’m not as well as I think I am. I shake my head, such a silly thought. This is a follow up, nothing more, nothing less; I’m going to be fine.

This way, she says.

I follow, watching the small slit at the back of the receptionist’s navy skirt open and close with each stride. The smell of latex and disinfectant is replaced with a subtle waft of rose-scented perfume. My shoulders drop, I exhale a steady breath. I relax. See, I’m fine. Everything is going to be okay.

Walking through yet another door I’m greeted by an outstretched hand. Hello, May. I’m Dr Brown. How are you feeling today? He’s wearing a white coat over a salmon pink business shirt, and a stethoscope dangles around his neck.

Good, thank you. Two up and down movements complete our handshake, and I exhale sharply when the doctor offers me a seat by motioning his hand in its direction. Thank you, I say again with nerves flipping my stomach once more.

His skin is aged and his hair fading to grey. Dr Brown is in his early sixties due to the weathered creases around the corners of his eyes and lips. He has a caring face. I’m not sure if it’s because his eyes are a soft blue or if it’s his gentle smile, but I can tell he cares for people.

Are you ready to get started?

Yes.

Now, Dr Grause has sent over a referral. Did you receive a copy? He stacks his hands on top of each other after laying them onto the desk.

Umm. No. I shake my head. But she said— Sorry, I mean Dr Grause said you might be able to help me get rid of this annoying pain and slight swelling I’ve been experiencing at the top of my right leg.

Yes, May, this is my hope. How long have you been having this pain?

Umm. I begin to do the maths. It wasn’t there when I got married a little over a year ago or on our honeymoon. It began a few months after we got home. I think it’s been about six months. At first it would come and go, but now it seems to be more persistent, you know?

His eyelids close momentarily before they shoot open again.

I put heat packs on my leg when it becomes troublesome. It helps some, but not much.

I see. He pauses. I have the results from those tests you took last week. Today, we’re going to talk about what they were able to tell us.

Oh, okay, good. I probably should have seen to this sooner, but you know, aches and pains are a part of busy life. Especially when you’ve been training for a half-marathon. I laugh uncomfortably while fiddling with the bottom of my floral, dress now sitting midway up my thigh. I’m not sure why I laugh. Maybe it’s because I kept putting off getting my leg seen to. Well, that is, until I couldn’t stand the pain anymore. Why did I have to come here?

Dr Brown removes a film from a large white envelope and proceeds to hang it against a small board before switching on a light. It’s now I realise how tall he is—he’s almost as tall as the length of the door frame.

I focus on the X-ray. It’s a picture of the long bone in the top of my leg.

May, can you see this cobweb-type pattern here? He points to the image with a long plastic stick.

Yes. I can.

This is the femur on your right leg.

Okay. I square my shoulders, shifting into a better posture as Dr Brown places another X-ray beside the one already there.

Now, this is your femur on your left leg. Can you see the femur bone here?

Yes. I can.

Can you tell me what’s different about these two bones? His eyebrows rise.

Well, yes, the left one doesn’t have a cobwebbed spot on it.

Correct.

So what do you think this might mean? What are you telling me? My hands start to tremble. It moves up my arms and down my torso.

May, I’m sorry, but you have some form of cancer.

The big C word! No, it can’t be. I’m too young. That’s too massive.

Right now, I’m not one hundred percent sure which one, but I’m leaning towards Ewing’s Sarcoma.

Cancer. Ewing’s Sarcoma. I repeat his words. What’s Ewing’s Sarcoma?

It’s a rare type of cancer. He delivers this with such ease; he doesn’t even bat an eyelash.

How can someone say such a thing without a torrent of emotion?

No, sorry, that can’t be right. I’m only twenty-three years old. I’m too young to have cancer. Old people get cancer. Sick people get cancer. I’m healthy. I didn’t have to tick a single box on your form, Dr Brown. I spew these words from my tongue like my life depends on it, like cancer is something you can negotiate away.

Cancer doesn’t discriminate, unfortunately. The type I think you might have is found mainly in children and young adults. It’s rare and highly malignant, but if found early enough it can be treated with a good outcome.

Well, that’s good and all, but you see, I don’t think this is my problem. Aren’t you supposed to do biopsies and stuff to know for sure? The trembling moves down to my feet. No matter how hard I try, I’m unable to control them from shifting.

Yes, we do biopsies and my receptionist will schedule one for you hopefully for the end of next week. It is the only way I can confirm my suspicions. Your blood test results have shown me you have extremely abnormal levels of red blood cells and white blood cells, which is concerning.

My blood is sick? My leg has a cobweb. I have cancer. This can’t be happening to me.

We already know the diagnosis will be a form of cancer. We will be using the biopsy to grade your tumours and confirm the exact type. Do you understand what I’m saying?

I nod, slowly, but soon shake my head. This isn’t right. How could you know? I’m sorry. I think you’re just making assumptions at this point. None of this makes any sense. I try to stand, but my body doesn’t comply with my mind’s direction to do so, and I remain seated.

The CAT scan combined with the bone scan you had show this isn’t the only tumour in your body. This causes me even greater concern.

My jaw draws slack and my mouth gapes open. Why didn’t he tell me that from the beginning? Is he trying to deliver some form of shocking suspense? It seems mean he’s only telling me about more tumours now. I’m dreaming. I must be asleep. It’s the only explanation I can fathom.

You also have a tumour in your knee on your right leg, and another in your left arm on the humerus bone, the bone in your upper arm. I’m hoping—

No! Dr Brown, you’re wrong. Again, I’m sorry, but you must have mixed my tests up with someone else’s. I don’t have any pain in my knee or in my arm. I’d appreciate it if you could get my films and we can talk about this at another time. This is a mistake. My words shake like an erupting volcano.

His head tilts and his eyes narrow with what I assume is pity. I’m sorry, May, you have cancer. Your blood tests and other imagery you’ve had tell us so. These are your films. See? He uses the long stick to point to my name, which is highlighted in the top corner.

No. My voice is almost inaudible.

I’m not sure what he says next. I can see his lips moving and his face changing, but there is no sound apart from a loud thrumming in my ears. My heart.

Do you understand what I just said? His voice is suddenly loud.

Sorry, I whisper.

I think it’s best for you to come back again tomorrow. I’ll squeeze you in at the same time. I’d like you to bring someone with you. It’s clear to me you were not expecting such results today. Didn’t your doctor tell you why you were coming to our clinic?

Huh.

Your GP, she didn’t tell you why you were coming?

I shake my head.

Can you be here at eleven a.m. tomorrow? And can you have someone accompany you? It’s important you are clear about what will be happening because it’s going to happen very quickly.

Okay, I mouth as I stand.

I’ll give you these. Dr Brown holds out a bound stack of papers. I take the document and tuck it into my handbag. Will can’t know about this. Nobody can know about this, not right now, anyway. I need time to process what I’ve just been told.

I walk out of there on autopilot. Cancer. What?

There is no breeze when my stiletto hits the footpath. The air is stale and lifeless. Like me. I slip each foot out of my shoes and hang them from my fingertips. The path is scorching against the flesh of my soles. I’m not sure why I do it—it could be because the path is far too hot for my skin to bear, or it could be because this is a natural act for me, but I run. I run flat out. Running has always alleviated my tension—it’s probably why I started training for this stupid half-marathon in the first place. My handbag slaps at my sides as my feet pound against the tar. Running usually supplies contentment in my life, but right now I feel numb. There is no contentment—no nothing. Maybe if I run far enough away then I won’t have cancer anymore.

Darting in front of a car, I inhale harshly as I wave my apologies before entering a children’s playground on the opposite corner to the medical centre. Children swing freely. The sound of innocent laughter fills the air. The green grass instantly cushions my boiling feet. I stare at its brilliant colouration when my head drops and my hands grasp my knees.

It’s okay. Breathe, I tell myself, trying to slow each breath.

Without warning the grass slowly fades to a haunting grey. I flick my head upwards and my body follows suit. The swings bearing the weight of small children suddenly morph into aged tombstones. This once beautiful playground becomes ugly, as I see only an eerie cemetery. I try to escape the sudden changes, and step forward. My lungs seize, causing me to cough hard, and I gasp. I attempt to inhale air, but it’s not entering my body like it should. A stampeding herd pummels my chest, buckling my torso over, folding me in half once more.

Breathe, May, I whisper, right before my legs give way. I fall heavily upon my knees as salty tears flow steadily from my disbelieving eyes. Finally, I draw a needy mouthful of air only to release it again in an injured howl.

Please don’t take my life.

Entering through the front door of our three-bedroom and completely outdated apartment, my body grows weary. I can’t tell Will about this—not yet. I’m sure they’ve made a gigantic mistake. It must be. It has to be.

My bag lands heavily on the table near the entry and my shoes land even heavier against the cream-coloured tiles. The smell of BBQ’ing meat wafts from the back porch, making my stomach rumble before the sweet voice of my husband singing along to the radio brings a smile to my face, something I haven’t been able to do the entire afternoon.

Babe, is that you? he calls out mid-chorus.

Yeah. I’m just going to have a quick shower, okay?

Okay. Dinner isn’t too far away.

Love you. I speak louder than the music as I undo the clasp to my bra before entering the bedroom and grabbing some sweatpants and one of Will’s faded T-shirts. I lay them out on the bed before heading into the bathroom.

The shower screen coats in steam as the water washes over a discovery I can only compare to as a living nightmare. Tomorrow they’re going to tell me they stuffed up big time and then they’ll have to apologise for scaring the absolute crap out of me. That’s what will happen … it has to. Who will have egg on their faces then, hey?

Foam streaks a line down my right leg over my skin. Underneath, there’s a bone causing my pain. A bone filled with disease. A bone that is useless. It’s funny how one minute I’m convinced they’re so wrong and the next I find myself identifying with the diagnosis. How long will I jump from one belief to another?

Babe, dinner’s ready. The screen opens and Will stands there, gawking at my nakedness the same way he did when he saw me like this at seventeen.

My Will. My life. My forever.

Okay, honey, I reply when his eyes finally travel up my torso and meet mine. The whirls of sapphire and light blues are always so pretty to stare at. His eyes won me from our very first glance, and if I didn’t know it then, I do now.

Will touches my shoulder. Water runs over his hand and drips from his elbow. He pulls his hand away.

What are you doing? I giggle.

You had a hair stuck to you.

Mine or yours?

Yours, silly. Why would it be mine? He holds the long brown strand out like a trophy, causing me to stretch my eyebrows upwards. Stop bug-eyeing me with those big browns and hurry up before our dinner gets cold. This chef has been busy cooking you a feast.

A feast? Well, I like the sound of that. Thanks, hon. I’m getting out now.

His lips pucker before he pecks quickly