The Trouble With Dying Read online

  I look at her, too, but all I’m seeing is wires and machines and a balcony beyond my grasp. How did it happen? An accident? A lethal stumble? Or worse? My gut roils.

  He jiggles his leg. “I hate it when you’re quiet, you know that?”

  “Who is this Nate guy?” I ask, but Gran just frowns and shakes her head.

  I frown back at her and nod.

  She shakes her head more abruptly. “You need to hear this,” she adds.

  “. . . –iss you,” he says. “Stupid, I know, when you’re right here.”

  He pauses, considering.

  “It’s the little things. Your smile. Those random text messages and photos you send me. That over-achieving competitive streak of yours . . . Yeah, God knows why I miss that, but I do. I just . . .” He shrugs. “I miss you.”

  He takes the lid off his takeaway cup and contemplates the coffee.

  “Funny,” he says to his coffee, “Ma always said ‘Have faith in Faith’. Exactly the kind of bullshit comment she liked to make. But that one was one of her faves, especially after we . . .”

  He inhales deeply, holds, exhales. “. . . Well. She kept repeating it, over and over, for years. Drove me nuts. That and all her other spooky, séance-y mumbo jumbo.”

  He sighs, and it seems to drag all the way from his toes. “You know what she’s like. Nothing’s changed. But hon, just for the record, I always did have faith in you. You know that, right? So whatever’s going on in that body and that contrary little head of yours right now, don’t give up. You can’t give up. We need . . . I need you.”

  He clears his throat. Drops his chin to his chest. Pauses, then adds, voice low, “Just hurry up and get better, okay?”

  In the silence that follows, he drains his coffee. Chuckles. “At least you don’t argue when you’re in a coma.”

  The C-word trills along my veins. My scalp tightens, lifting the hairs on my head.

  I turn to Gran, and this time she doesn’t avoid my gaze or change the subject or dissolve. I have her full attention.

  “A coma.” I force the word through stiff lips. “I’ve left my body.”

  She nods.

  Apprehension squeezes the air from my lungs. “Oh God. I really am dying.”

  “Hogwash. You’re not even close. You’re very much alive. And that’s the way you’re going to stay if I have anything to do with it.”

  But does she have anything to do with it? Whatever’s going on here, it’s all a bit Secret Squirrel for my liking.

  Nate drains his coffee and shuffles closer to the bed. “Did you see Tess’s card? It’s special.”

  He glances at the bedside table, where an enormous card sits in pride of place, outflanking all the others. I strain to see it, but it’s facing the wrong way.

  “She misses you.”

  Tess. The name doesn’t spark any memories, but I’m getting used to that.

  Nate reaches for Faith-in-the-bed’s hand, clasping it in his, and the shock of his touch fizzes through me, so intense I can almost feel it.

  My breath hitches. I can feel it. I watch as he touches his lips to her hand, and I’m feeling it.

  Gran raises an eyebrow. “Well, now. That’s useful.”

  Useful? I feel like I’ve won the freaking Lottery.

  I turn to her, elated. Then suspicion takes over. “You read my mind?”

  Her expression is all wide-eyed innocence, but I’m not fooled. “How did you—?”

  She pointedly turns her gaze on Nate. “Ssh.”

  “You know what I love about arguing with you, Pixie?” He brings Faith-in-the-bed’s hand up to his cheek and the gentle rasp of stubble comes through to my own hand. I shiver. Heat floods my cheeks. It feels so . . . intimate. In a good way. The sort of good way you don’t want your dead Gran in the room for.

  “We get to make up.” Nate kisses her fingertips, and sparks of heat flicker deep in my belly.

  It’s weird. I’m watching this man touch Faith-in-the-bed but, ventriloquist-style, I’m feeling it all. This must be how it is for babies when they first work out the baby in the mirror is them.

  Only way more sensual.

  Then I remember Gran and my body heats again, but this time it’s in a totally un-sensual, frying-with-embarrassment way. She’s witnessing all of this. Worse, she’s probably reading my mind as it happens. I blush so hard even my bones are burning.

  Gran’s lips twitch. She coughs discreetly. “I’ll make myself scarce.”

  A moment later she dissolves.

  Nate’s thumb, meanwhile, softly strokes Faith-in-the-bed’s. Mine. My pulse kicks up. Intimate heat arrows straight to my core. Embarrassment forgotten, Gran forgotten, I hold my breath and close my eyes, focusing in on that tiny sensation. My thoughts scramble. If this is what a mere echo of his touch can do to me then, please God, let me back in my body. I want to feel it first-hand.

  “Do you know,” he says, “the very first time I met you I decided I was going to marry you. I was eleven and you were nine and you’d just moved in across the road. You were this pint-sized thing with the cutest face and I decided I’d be your protector. But you soon showed me. Man, that punch of yours was ferocious. Still scares me,” he adds with a grin.

  He lapses into silence, lost in his thoughts. Then squeezes her hand. “You were perfect. Bossy—” he laughs “—but perfect. ”

  He chats away about the Us I don’t remember, and I listen avidly, grasping at snippets of our childhood friendship-cum-romance like an addict in withdrawal. Secret messages posted under stones. Not-so-secret messages taped to bedroom windows. Hazy summer days making huts in long grass. Cloud spotting. Star gazing. Hide’n’seek, secret clubs, monopoly, and—I blush as he describes it—one fateful strip poker dare that finally shifted the gears in our relationship.

  My heart swells. This man—this mysterious, magnetic man—loves me. Has loved me for years.

  “We’ve done a lot of living since then, haven’t we?” he says.

  Have we? I don’t know.

  He leans forward on his elbows, head bowed. Rests his forehead on her clasped hand. And as he sits, silent, still, lost in his thoughts, the whole room seems to be holding its breath, waiting like us for a miracle.

  Because that’s what it’s going to take, isn’t it? I don’t know him, and I don’t know me, but there’s one thing I do know: we’re meant to be together. I can feel it in his every word, his every touch, in my every tingling, heart-tripping response.

  He clears his throat, struggling to speak.

  “I’m here for you, Pix,” he says, his voice raw. “Always.”

  He kisses her—my—hand and his anguish spears through me. I need to hold him, comfort him, dry his tears, take away his pain . . . and suddenly, without warning, I’m down on the floor, standing right beside him.

  My pulse trips and hurries to catch up. I moved.

  Everything looks different down here. Faith-in-the-bed, pale and fragile. The thin blue stripes on her hospital gown, the thin red line snaking down one of the tubes, the larger tube in her mouth. Nate’s large, solid hand dwarfing her slender one.

  As I watch, he flattens her hand against his, palm to palm, interlacing their fingers in the most sensual of caresses. Desire shivers through me.

  “I’m here,” I murmur. “Right beside you.”

  He twiddles with her ring, a delicate, white-gold band inset with a solitary diamond. Stops, looks away.

  Eyes closed, he pinches the bridge of his nose. I wish I could ease his grief.

  “We need to talk,” he says, and I’ve never felt more trapped than I do right now, because I’d love nothing more than to talk with this man. But he can’t hear me and the only version of me he sees is the one lying motionless in the bed.

  His fingers continue to play with mine, stroking, caressing. And as I feel the repeating twist of ring on finger, I suddenly see what I should’ve seen straight away: that band is on my ring finger.

  I’m married.
<
br />   I look at Nate Sutherland—my husband—with fresh eyes; eyes that understand precisely how much this man means to me, how much I mean to him, and how lucky I am to have him in my life.

  The only question is: do I still have one?

  Chapter Three

  “Nate,” I say, rolling his name on my tongue. It feels familiar—or maybe I just want it to feel familiar.

  He doesn’t hear me, of course, and continues chatting to my comatose body while I stand beside him, feeling every bit the gooseberry. Which is ridiculous, since he’s actually talking to me.

  “Nate, can you hear me?” Please let him hear me. I don’t want to feel so alone.

  He stops talking and turns my way.

  I start. My stomach lurches. Hope flares, only to be snuffed by the realisation he’s staring not at me but through me. My skin creeps. It’s as if I don’t exist.

  “I’m here, Nate. Do you see me?”

  His eyes soften and this time I know it’s not over me. I follow his gaze and smile. He’s looking at that huge Get Well card again. Tess’s card. I feel his mood lift and my own mood lifts to match, because this time I can see why the card is special: it’s home-made. I take in the hand-drawn, childish details. Grass, flowers, a pink house, a smiling sun, and hearts. So many hearts. A card full of love.

  Without warning, Nate pulls himself out of the chair and takes a step, heading straight for me. My gut does a rollercoaster swoop. I try to move aside but my legs don’t respond.

  I cry a warning, “No!” But it’s too late. He walks straight into—through—me.

  The hairs on my neck lift. And before I’ve had time to even gasp, it’s over. He continues on around the bed and reaches for the card, oblivious to the heart-pounding chaos he’s just caused behind him.

  I take a couple of steadying breaths, then try to follow. Nothing happens.

  Why can’t I move? I moved before.

  He opens the card, smiling. What is he reading? Who is Tess? Something tells me I need to find out, and since Nate can’t hear me I’ll have to read over his shoulder. Which means I need to move, dammit.

  I force myself to breathe in—out—in—out, then try again. Still nothing.

  Why can’t I move anymore? A sob rises in my throat. I grit my teeth. Don’t be a sissy, Faith. Think. You got down here. How?

  Nate reads the card, smiles, sends Faith-in-the-bed an affectionate glance, and finally returns the card to the front of the bedside cabinet.

  I grind my teeth. That card’s important, and now I’ve missed it because I’m as immobile as a whale in sand.

  “Gran?” Where is she? It shouldn’t be this hard.

  Nate bends over Faith-in-the-bed. He smooths a wayward strand of hair from her face.

  “Stay, Pixie,” he murmurs. “You can’t go yet. There’s too much unfinished business.”

  What does he mean?

  But I’ve barely had time to wonder when his lips come down on Faith-in-the-bed’s cheek in a whispery graze that echoes against my own. My pulse dances, my thoughts scramble, and suddenly I’m on a beach, knee-deep in water, up to my neck in love.

  “It’s you, Pix. It’s always been you.” Jade-green eyes staring deep into mine. Waves breaking on the shore behind us. “I love you so much. Let’s make babies. Lots of little Pixies.”

  Laughter. My arms around his neck, my fingers in his hair. “Can we make a few little Nates as well?”

  His arm around my waist, his lips grazing mine. “Only if they take after you.”

  That rollercoaster body-invasion feeling hits me again, and I vaguely register Nate has returned to his chair via me.

  And with that, the door to my past, so briefly ajar, slams shut in my face.

  “Shit,” says Nate. “We made a right mess of things, didn’t we?”

  My heart falters then rights itself, pounding against my ribs. I wait for more, but he doesn’t elaborate. I scour my mind for a hint of the mess he’s referring to, but it’s all just one big cerebral wasteland.

  “He’s right,” says Gran, and I turn my gaze on her. “You did make a mess of things.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  She regards me with troubled eyes.

  “Are you talking about Nate and me, or just me?” I draw a shaky breath. “My fall?”

  She opens her mouth to speak, then clearly thinks better of it.

  “Please, Gran. Help me remember. I need to know.”

  She shakes her head. “Darling, I’d love to. But I’m afraid I can’t.”

  She looks away, and I notice her eyes welling.

  I blink, frown. Gran doesn’t cry. Gran brings rabid lawyers to their knees. Onions peel themselves under her dry-eyed glare.

  “Gran?”

  She gives a vague shake of her head, and for a moment I think she’s trying to hide her tears. Then I follow her gaze and realise it’s not that at all.

  Because there, framed by the doorway, stands Gran. A much younger Gran.

  # # #

  I look from young Gran to old Gran and back again. Wow. It’s her, all right. Gran, thirty-odd years ago.

  Young Gran has far more conservative fashion tastes, that much is clear. Blue jeans, lilac jumper, no-frills ponytail and not a jot of make-up. Everything about her is understated—apart from her expression. Her expression is loaded with grief. Soul-deep, black-hole grief.

  Beside me, Gran is motionless, her kohled eyes riveted on the younger her.

  “Hello, Nathan.” Affection softens young Gran’s features, but only for a moment; her gaze slides past him to the bed, and the grief is back.

  At the sound of his name Nate turns, smiles. “Afternoon, Kathy.”

  He gets to his feet and comes around the chair, drawing her into a hug.

  I glance at Gran. “Your daughter?”

  Gran wipes her eyes, nods, smiles. “You’re the image of her.”

  She turns to me, a quizzical look on her face. “You know she’s your mother, don’t you? Has seeing her helped you remember?”

  I frown and shake my head. No. It’s beyond weird. I don’t remember my own mother.

  I study her more closely, but try as I might I see only a younger Gran, not an older me. My mouth dries. Maybe that’s a sign.

  If it is, I don’t like the message.

  “No change,” Nate murmurs, still holding my mother. “She’s hanging in there. You breed ’em tough, Kathy.”

  Kathy attempts a smile, but can’t manage anything more than a fragile lip-flutter. She’s saved from speaking when a young girl, six or seven years old, bounds into the room and wraps herself around Nate’s legs.

  “Hey, Tessabelle,” he says, releasing Kathy with a smile and bending down to the girl.

  He disentangles her and swings her high in the air. “How’s my princess? Have you been good for Nan?”

  “Yes.”

  She squeals with laughter as he blows a raspberry in her neck, and something slots into place in my mind. The noise of the room fades to nothing.

  He has a daughter.

  We have a daughter.

  My heart pounds hard and heavy in my chest, reverberating in my ears, my teeth, my toes.

  I’m a mum.

  One breath. Two. Three. I struggle to wrap my mind around it. But my eyes can see the similarities. Cheekbones, skin tone, hair . . . yep, this wee girl is mine.

  I’m not sure how I feel. Emotional? Not really. Proud? No. Curious, perhaps. She seems a happy, healthy, well-adjusted kid. But how is she coping with her mum in a coma?

  Are—were—we close? I feel village-idiot slow. Why don’t I remember my own child?

  My husband—Nate—lowers her to the ground and ruffles her hair.

  “Tess has been a great help today,” says Kathy. “Haven’t you, dear? We went to the supermarket, then we came home and made our very own bread rolls . . .”

  “And ate them,” adds Tess. She shoots a cheeky grin at her grandmother, and that’s when her eyes lock on me. A
lightning bolt of recognition jolts me. I remember those eyes.

  A series of emotions cross her face: surprise, excitement, relief, delight, then fear. She whips her gaze round to Faith-in-the-bed, then back to me. “Mummy?”

  My heart stutters. The hair seems to lift from my scalp. I turn to Gran, barely breathing, silently seeking confirmation. Is it true? My daughter really sees me?

  Gran beams at me and my spirits soar. I turn back to Tess, smiling so hard it hurts.

  “Tess.” I say her name, trying to get used to the sound. “You can see me?”

  She nods, her own smile loaded with uncertainty.

  “I’m glad.” Which has to be the understatement of the century. If only I could cross the room and hug her like a real mum.

  She bites her lip. “Are you dead?”

  “Mummy’s still asleep,” says Kathy—my mother. It feels strange to think of her as that.

  “No,” I answer Tess. “But I need time to get better.”

  She nods, then rubs at the lip she’s just chewed. The fear leaves her face.

  “Want to come and say hi?” Kathy beckons Tess over to the bed, but Tess pointedly ignores her.

  “I miss you,” she says, her eyes still fixed on me.

  Nate bends down to kiss Tess’s head. “Mummy misses you too, Squirt.”

  I’m struggling to keep up with the double conversation going on here, so I can only imagine how hard it is for Tess, young as she is.

  Nate strokes Tess’s hair, then gently pushes her towards Faith-in-the-bed—but also towards me.

  She takes a couple of steps, then frowns. “I don’t know what to talk about.”

  “Anything,” says Nate.

  “Tell her about the baby bird,” suggests Kathy.

  Tess looks at me, and I give her an encouraging nod. “Don’t talk to me, darling. Talk to the bed, so you don’t confuse anyone.”

  “Well . . . I found a baby bird today.” She carefully looks at Faith-in-the-bed, but casts occasional glances down the bed to me. “It was hurt, so I brought it inside and made it a bed and fed it honey and water.”

  Kathy places a gentle hand on Tess’s shoulder. “It’s too young, though, poppet. It probably won’t survive, will it?”