The Trouble With Dying Page 17

  “Easy,” murmurs Gran.

  “I’m fine,” I snap.

  Gran nods, shoots me a look of loving concern, and leaves me to it.

  Tess’s eyes flick my way. I dredge up a hasty smile, though the truth is I’m not fine at all.

  “I’m sure Mummy will wake up one day soon,” Cynthia continues. “But if she doesn’t, tell you what, I could be your new mum. How does that sound?”

  Mum-mum-mum-mum-mum judders along my veins. My chest tightens.

  Tess twists her toe against linoleum. It squeaks in protest. She shoots Cynthia a guilty glance.

  “If you like,” Cynthia continues, voice casual, “you can call me Mummy now. Every girl needs a mum.”

  I can’t breathe. My head reverberates like the inside of a drum-kit. Boom. Boom. Boom-chick-boom.

  Tess’s face reddens. “But I’ve got a mum!”

  She leaps to her feet and backs away from the chair, lip trembling. “Mummy’s right here, and she’s the best Mummy ever and I’m not going to call you Mummy because she’s my Mummy and you’re not and I don’t want your stupid necklace anyway.”

  She rips it from her neck, flings it on the floor and stands, fists balled, crying.

  I drag in a ragged breath. “Tess, it’s okay.”

  But it’s not okay and we both know it. She looks up at me and cries louder.

  “I love you, Mummy,” she sobs.

  “I love you, too, honey. Don’t you worry. I’m right here, and I’ll be back to normal soon.” Just watch me. I’m not ready to sign over my mummy duties to anyone—not even my best friend.

  ‘Call me Mummy’, indeed.

  Fury smoulders in me as I watch Cynthia pull Tess close, murmuring kid-stealing something-or-others in her ear. The heart monitor sounds its warning beeps. My skin crawls. Traitorous bitch.

  Gran reappears.

  “Calm down,” she urges.

  I round on her and the fury erupts.

  “Stop telling me to calm down!” I forget to be circumspect around Tess. “She’s trying to destroy everything. My daughter! My life! You think I’m going to just let it happen?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “No!” I whip my hand up, signalling her to stop. I don’t want to hear any of her let’s-be-reasonable comments. This is not a time for reasonable.

  I glare at Cynthia. Some best friend she turned out to be. A nano-second later I’m standing in front of her chair, leaning close, my rage barely controlled as I face her down. The beeping becomes more urgent. I bring my hand back and slap her in the face, hard. But the joke’s on me. My hand slips right through her cheek.

  And what did I expect? That my anger would simply focus itself? By now I should know better.

  “Faith,” says Gran.

  “Butt out!” I yell.

  Then I round on Cynthia. “You cow. You disloyal, self-serving cow. You’re supposed to be my friend. My best friend, for crying out loud. Doesn’t that count for anything in your world? You make me sick.”

  I suck in a quick breath. “And what do you think’s going to happen when you’re the new me, huh? Do you think you’ll be enough for him? Really? With his track record? Stupid bitch. But you know what?” I’m gesticulating like a madwoman, seemingly unable to stop. “Have him. I don’t care. Not my daughter, though. No way. I’ll fight for my daughter to the bitter fucking . . .”

  On and on I rant, no longer caring that Tess is hearing it all, or that Gran is trying to intervene, or that the heart monitor is now shrieking for attention. Uncaring of anything except getting it all off my chest.

  A spooky calm descends, and I stop mid-sentence. The anger, the desperation, the emotion—gone. My well is empty.

  I feel light. Hollow. Free. A discarded husk, blowing in the breeze.

  “MUMMY!” shrieks Tess.

  Cynthia’s head jerks up.

  Free . . .

  The heart monitor emits an intrusive, continuous beeeeep.

  Tess runs to the bed, eyes wide, expression desperate.

  Cynthia stands. “Oh dear.”

  She holds her hand out. “Tess, come here, darling.”

  Floating . . .

  I feel lightheaded, spacey, as if I’m on the outside looking in. Only—I’ve been on the outside looking in for days, now, so does that mean I’m outside the outside? Outer space-outside, maybe? It’s a bit like being someone’s second cousin twice removed—you know there’s a link there somewhere but you don’t really feel it.

  Tess’s gaze ricochets wildly from Faith-in-the-bed to me, up near the ceiling, to Cynthia. “Help!”

  With precise movements Cynthia approaches the bed.

  “Oh dear,” she repeats, and everything she does borders on slow motion.

  Where’s Gran? I try to turn my head, but it doesn’t want to move. She moves into my line of vision and I see her expression. It’s grim. Reaper grim.

  “Idiot child,” she says through gritted teeth. She folds her arms, shakes her head at me, then shows me her back.

  That’s me told, then.

  Except, where I’d usually feel guilt, now I feel calm. Oneness with the universe.

  “Stupid, ignorant girl,” she mutters, gliding down to the bed.

  She glances at Creepy Guy, who meets her gaze expressionlessly. When did he appear, anyway? Gran hesitates, looks longingly at Faith-in-the-bed, glances once more at Creepy Guy, then purses her lips and backs off.

  Poor Gran. I can feel her tension from here. If I had room to care I might feel bad about that.

  I watch Creepy Guy watching us. His job must be deathly boring. Even as I think about laughing at my little joke, I can’t find the energy to care that much. I’m too, too calm.

  Creepy Guy continues to watch me. The thought pops into my head that maybe I should say hello.

  Why? I ask myself, only to hear myself think, Why not?

  So I glide down and hover in front of him. I look at him, head to one side. What a strange man.

  He meets my gaze unblinkingly.

  I open my mouth to speak, but it suddenly doesn’t seem important. Instead I make do with a smile. Or, at least, I think about smiling, but I’m not sure it reaches my lips. And really, it doesn’t matter because nothing matters.

  Two nurses rush in, taking in the scene at a glance. One of them calls for reinforcements.

  “Quick work,” Cynthia murmurs.

  Is it? I’m too relaxed to care. Serenity personified, that’s me.

  Which is surprising, since all hell is breaking loose down below. Two nurses and a grim-faced doctor are crammed into the small room, along with Tess, screaming and crying, and an impassive Cynthia.

  The doctor, busy with Faith-in-the-bed, lifts his head briefly to bark, “Get them out. Now.”

  A nurse sees to Tess, holding her close as she guides her from the room. Cynthia picks up her handbag and, with one last look at my body, follows.

  Another doctor strides in, white coat flapping and stethoscope swinging. “Where are we at?”

  Behind her, a whole team of medical personnel stride in, one of them wheeling a crash-cart.

  And behind the crash-cart is Nate.

  “NO!” He lunges at the bed. “Pix!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I’m warm. Peaceful. Lethargic. A light breeze plays with my hair, reminding me of palm trees, hot white sand, tropical island getaways. I breathe deeply and jasmine seduces my senses, taking me to another time, long ago, when I felt young and carefree.

  Bliss.

  In the middle distance a vertical shaft of light beams down from the sky, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Wow. That isn’t just sunlight bouncing off a plane, or some weird eclipse effect. It’s gloriously bright, and utterly, utterly white, its warmth reaching me even at this distance.

  What is it?

  Joy. Instinctively I know it: that light is pure, undiluted joy. It urges me closer. And like a moth to a flame I oblige, full of happy anticipation. This is my
destiny.

  Except Gran is standing in the way, arms folded, wearing her grumpy face and a severe black dress I recognise from years ago. It’s her funeral outfit.

  Although her message is clear, I’m more interested in the light. The joyful, beautiful, mesmerising light.

  For a moment I consider sidling past Gran. But even as I think it her expression darkens and my courage fails me. Gran on the war-path is not to be messed with.

  “Er, hi.” I look longingly past her.

  She does likewise, looking past me, but her expression is the opposite of longing. It’s distaste.

  I turn, wondering what she’s seen, but she stops me with her voice.

  “Don’t turn around,” she says through gritted teeth.

  My blissful state teeters.

  “He’s watching,” she adds, and I remember the ‘he’ she’s referring to. Creepy Guy.

  I know I should feel worried about him, but I don’t.

  Gran’s face is grim. Then, like a light switch, she suddenly adopts an un-Gran-like expression of smiling serenity. Still smiling, she closes her eyes and bows her head as if in acknowledgement.

  But she’s not acknowledging; she’s speaking, voice low, her bowed head hiding the movement of her mouth.

  “Don’t even think about going to the light,” she says, her tone intense.

  “It’s pretty,” I murmur.

  Then I realise what she’s said.

  “The light? You mean I’m dying?”

  She raises her head and holds my gaze for just a little too long. Then she glances once more over my shoulder, and even in my blissed-out state I can see she looks downright shifty.

  Gran tuts in exasperation.

  “Enough,” she snaps. “There’s too much to do, and very little time, and if ever there was a need for you to make use of your Osbourne genes, it’s now. Go!” She shoos me away with her hands. “Get cracking, girl!”

  “I’m tired.” My eyes stray back to the light. “I need a rest.”

  “No. Rest later.”

  The light draws me in. I move past Gran. “It’s so pretty. And warm.”

  She seizes my shoulders and turns me back.

  “I’m risking everything for you,” she hisses, “and if you think I’m going to take no for an answer . . . Go.” She gives me a good hard shove.

  I stumble, right myself and turn to protest, but she cups my cheek in her hand and the words die on my tongue.

  “Now,” she whispers, then propels me towards my hospital room. “I love you. Time is all I can give you, Faith. Use it well.”

  That’s when I notice Creepy Guy isn’t sitting anymore. He’s standing, all six-foot-plus of him, and he casts an imposing figure, all decked out in black as he is. But it’s his eyes that really frighten me, because they’re glowing angry red and they’re locked unblinkingly on Gran.

  It dawns on me then that Gran’s just done a Very Bad Thing. She’s interfered. She’s ignored the rules of Death. She could go to Hell for that.

  # # #

  I don’t want to be back in this stupid hospital room. I’m so over it. And now it’s ten times worse because the atmosphere is so tense. I was feeling peaceful back there, and now it’s leeching straight out of me, like bathwater down the drain. But if I leave I’ll have Gran-zilla to answer to.

  I grind my teeth. Fine. I’ll stay. Not that I have a clue what I’m meant to be doing here.

  A nurse whips the curtains around the bed. A second nurse attempts to escort Nate out of the room, but he isn’t having a bar of it. He shakes her off like a pesky mosquito, standing his ground at the bed. It takes the intervention of an intern—a young, fresh-faced guy with biceps and an attitude to match Nate’s—for him to back down and leave.

  “Don’t, Faith.” Nate, white-faced and desperate, calls from the doorway. “Don’t do this. You hear me? You are not allowed to die.”

  The door clicks closed on ‘die’, like an executioner’s blow.

  # # #

  The doctors strip off my gown and start working on my lifeless body.

  Dry-mouthed, I turn away. That’s my body, my life they’re trying to save. What if they fail? I can’t watch that, even for Gran.

  I leave them to it and merge through to the corridor.

  Out there, Nate paces up and down like a caged lion, albeit a slow one. Every movement he makes seems to be at quarter-speed. And it’s not just him: a few metres away, Cynthia’s lipstick reapplication is taking longer than ever.

  Nate stops in front of her.

  “You were there,” he says, the baritone syllables falling from his mouth at frame-by-frame speed. “What happened?”

  Cynthia performs the slowest shrug in the world then mimics his vocal slowdown. “She stopped breathing.”

  There’s something screwy going on with time, here—but, weirdly, I’m the only one who seems to have noticed.

  Nate eyeballs Cynthia for far too long—probably only a couple of beats in real-time—then about-turns and makes for my door. She pulls out a hand-mirror. He raises his hand inch by inch to knock.

  Then he hesitates and lets his hand drop. I watch its journey, fascinated. His shoulders sag, and even in slo-mo he looks like he’s aged twenty years. He slumps against the wall—a spectacular feat of muscle control if it weren’t a time warp—and closes his eyes.

  Please, Faith. Stay.

  At least that’s at normal speed.

  Don’t leave me again. Not like this.

  Again? I’ve left him before?

  I need you.

  My breath hitches. My heart pounds. He needs me?

  The hospital hubbub mutes.

  Nate needs me. I make him angry as hell, but he needs me.

  I glance at Cynthia but she’s so engrossed in her reflection she hasn’t heard a thing. She pockets her mirror and everything clatters back to life, including my brain. Of course she hasn’t heard: he didn’t speak. Those were his thoughts.

  Which means—crap. I’m really dead this time.

  “Gran?”

  But she stays away. Hardly surprising; she’s risked too much already.

  Thoughts bombard me from everywhere, a mad mess of emotion surging at me like a suddenly burst dam.

  Mummy, don’t die . . .

  Quick, Faith, quick.

  Such a shame. Poor kid.

  Loud, demanding, overwhelming. I clap my hands over my ears but the noise remains.

  Faster. Losing her.

  Better ring Geoff . . .

  No. You can’t die. Need you.

  They’ve found a shortcut to my brain and if it carries on like this I’m going to implode.

  Nate’s expression is anguished. I want to reach out and smooth it all away. With moon walker speed he pushes himself upright, and heads off down the corridor.

  I’ll pour the lemonade, you take the money.

  Two kids, a girl and a boy, setting up a lemonade stand. Jugs of fizz to the left, glasses in the middle, mint and lemon garnishes to the right.

  The little lemonade girl looks Tess-ish. Is it Tess’s thought?

  But although she’s right beside me the picture loses vibrancy fast. It’s as if a fog is blanketing my vision.

  I look at Nate’s departing back. On a hunch I follow him, and the picture immediately intensifies. Not Tess’s memory, then. Nate’s.

  Man, you’re bossy. The boy gives the girl’s ponytail a friendly tug.

  His smile. It’s Nate’s. The boy must be Nate. Which means the girl isn’t Tess, but—me?

  “Charging . . .”

  Another time, another place, but it’s the same kids a few years older.

  Thought I’d find you here. The girl’s concern a tangible thing. Young Nate’s joy that she’s come masked by outward anger; anger I instantly recognise. He turns his back. She touches his shoulder. He pauses for one, two, three heartbeats then hesitantly covers her hand with his. His emotions run through me like an electric current, swamping me. This girl, thi
s gangly creature two years his junior, whom his friends see as nothing more than a nuisance—he loves her.

  He loves—loved—me.

  “Ready in three . . .”

  Now, as if his emotions are finding an outlet through me, I’m feeling everything.

  Senior Formal night. First kiss. Passion, love, hope.

  Summer heat, sun-kissed bodies, love-making under the stars.

  The airport. Another kiss. His hand on her cheek. Love you. See you in a few months. Her sadness matching his. I’m counting the days. Be safe.

  We were in love. I can’t seem to draw breath, and it’s nothing to do with being dead.

  “Two . . .”

  Nate throws open the door to the stairwell, bounding down the stairs two at a time as if to out-run the memories. My chest constricts. I break out in a cold sweat. Stop! They’re my memories, too. I lurch after him. He reaches the ground floor and heads out of the hospital. I stay close, desperate for my past.

  City noises assault me and I suddenly register I’m outside. Increasing the distance from hospital. From my body. A thrill of anticipation hits me. I’ve never been this far before. I’m free!

  No, not free: dead. My excitement deserts me as quickly as it arrived.

  Guilt. I should’ve told her.

  Should’ve told me what? The images flick by too quickly for me to grasp. Camera, danger, job, responsibility, subterfuge, corruption, lives at stake . . .

  I frown. It’s all very 007-ish. What happened?

  The letter. Despair. Wait. Give me a chance. Should’ve told her. Can’t. Not safe. Have to see it through.

  He’s thinking too fast. I can’t keep up.

  “One . . .”

  Anguish. How could she?

  Wedding bells. Didn’t wait.

  Nate stops dead in his tracks, breathing heavily. His face twists and I feel his pain as if it’s hard-wired into my heart. Love. Anger. Bitterness. Regret.

  “Faith,” he groans. “Don’t . . .”

  His voice breaks. “I can’t do this.”

  “I’m right here,” I murmur. But he can’t hear me—and even if he could, lying dead back in hospital doesn’t count as ‘here’.