The Trouble With Dying Read online

  Mum quietly but firmly closes the door on his protests.

  # # #

  Geoff’s heavy footfalls announce his arrival to the ward. My spirits plummet. I don’t want him here. He’s got switch-flicking on his mind and, after the day I’ve had, that’s the last thing I want to be dealing with.

  He passes by the window with jerky Pinnochio movements. Why? I study his expression but can’t tell if I’m looking at exhaustion or murderous anticipation.

  With a quiet knock even I have to admit is considerate, he enters my room.

  “Daddy!” Tess shouts, flinging herself at him.

  He hunkers down and scoops her into a hug, and Mum watches on from the chair with a smile, and I want to vomit because it’s all so Happy Families and don’t they see right through his daddy act?

  In fairness, Tess is too young to see anything other than the daddy in her father, and Mum’s probably relieved he showed up at all.

  “Thanks, Kathy.” He meets her gaze over Tess’s head. “For everything.”

  “No problem.”

  He murmurs something to Tess, then releases her and stands. “She looks . . . fine.”

  Mum looks at the bed and shakes her head. “They won’t know until they’ve done some tests. But so far so good.”

  His lips compress in a tight line, and though I can’t tell if it’s about the need for tests or the ‘so far so good’, I can guess.

  Mum stands and shoulders her handbag. “I’ll take Tess back to my place for dinner. Want me to keep a plate warm for you?”

  “Thanks. That would be great.” Another glance at the bed. “I’ll be an hour or so. Is that okay?”

  “Take all the time you need.”

  He acknowledges this with a smile, then ruffles Tess’s hair. “Be good for Nan.”

  They say their goodbyes and Geoff follows them out of the room, stopping at the nurses’ station. He returns a few minutes later with the doctor.

  “Absolutely,” the doctor is saying, “she’s come through. But we may not be so lucky next time. I just need you to be aware of the risks.”

  Geoff collapses in the chair and drags his hands through his hair.

  “This can’t go on,” he mutters.

  And if that’s not a threat on my life I don’t know what is. My hands are cold and slick with sweat. Why is the doctor not calling security? I need Geoff the hell away from my body.

  The doctor places a bolstering hand on Geoff’s shoulder. “This isn’t easy for you, Mr Carson, but please know we’re doing everything we possibly can for your wife.”

  Geoff nods, and the doctor, with a quick check of my notes, continues on his ward round.

  For a while Geoff holds Faith-in-the-bed’s hand, stroking her fingers. It comes through to me second-hand and I shudder, torn between the pleasure of feeling a touch, any touch, and the disgust of feeling his touch.

  Disgust wins. I turn away, scrubbing at my fingers as if they’ve dragged against nettle.

  A sense of disquiet descends. When I look up, it’s to see Nate, silent and dark, framed in the doorway.

  Geoff turns. His hand stills.

  For a double beat neither man speaks. Then Nate steps forward, nods briefly. “Geoff.”

  “You,” says Geoff, as if Nate’s a weed that just won’t die.

  Nate’s eyes narrow. “Nice to see you, too.”

  Geoff turns his back on Nate. “You shouldn’t be here. Immediate family only.”

  “I checked with the nurse. She said I could visit.”

  “Well I’m saying you can’t.” Geoff releases my hand and faces the other man. “Let’s cut the crap, eh? You don’t like me and I don’t like you. So do us both a favour and fuck off.”

  “I’m not here for you. I’m here for Faith.”

  “No doubt.” Geoff’s tone is dry. “You’re here way too much.”

  Nate’s expression darkens. He starts to speak then, with a glance at the bed, says, “I think we should continue this conversation in the corridor.”

  “This conversation is over.” Geoff turns his back on Nate, which probably isn’t a good move because Nate reaches him in two strides and hauls him out of his chair.

  “This conversation isn’t even close to over,” growls Nate.

  “Get your hands off me.” Geoff shrugs out of Nate’s grasp.

  Nose to nose, the two men stare each other down. Then Geoff abruptly strides out of the room.

  Out in the corridor, he rounds on Nate, and there’s a warring glint in his eye that shows me why he’s a successful businessman.

  It’s King of the Boardroom versus Blue-Jeaned Menace. And they happen to be the two most significant men in my life.

  Goosebumps prickle my flesh. Geoff is the father of my child and inextricably linked to me. Yet every time I look at him I get the creeps. He’s ivy, his tentacles tangling in every facet of my life, strangling me even as they reinforce.

  And then there’s Nate. He’s fierce and dark and loyal and bold, with a past as mysterious as my own. Our love didn’t last. So why do I want to pull him close and never let go?

  It’s as if my life—whatever it was, whatever it is—has come down to this moment.

  “Touch me again,” says Geoff, giving each word icy emphasis, “and you’re dead. You’ll be floating in the Hauraki Gulf before anyone even notices you’re gone.”

  My insides shrivel. No. Not Nate as well. If we’re not careful Geoff will kill us all.

  My heart surges into hundred-metre-sprint mode.

  Nate, on the other hand, is so relaxed he’s not even in the race. “Figures. You’re just looking for an excuse.”

  “An excuse? You think I need one? You’ve been interfering in my marriage for years.”

  “Get over yourself, Carson. Faith’s allowed a friend or two.”

  “Bullshit. You want her.”

  Nate eyes Geoff with derision. “I want her happy. You? You want her dead.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Know this, Carson. I’m watching you.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “Is Cynthia really worth it?”

  “What are you . . . Cynthia’s not . . . I wouldn’t . . .” Geoff’s face turns puce.

  Nate rams his message home. “Do you really think she’d stick around if she knew you had your wife’s blood on your hands?”

  “You take that back right now,” Geoff says through clenched teeth, “or I’ll sue you for every cent you’ve got.”

  “You can’t bully me, Carson.”

  Geoff’s fists bunch at his sides. A pulse works in his throat. “You’re meddling in things you know nothing about.”

  “What’s to know?” Nate shrugs. “You want Cynthia so you shoved Faith off a balcony. Messy, but that’s what you get with ex-wives.”

  “You go to the cops with that and I’ll . . .”

  “You’ll what? Kill me?” Nate’s laughter rebounds off the walls as he walks off down the corridor.

  I’m left with the distinct impression Nate is bothered less by the threat of death than by his own psychic awareness.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It’s late when Nate returns. He waits in the shadows until, eventually, an alarm sounds at the nurses’ station. He watches as the only nurse at the station dashes to respond, then quickly, quietly, walks to my room.

  He stops outside my door. Looks both ways. Slips inside my room and eases the door shut behind him. This isn’t Nate the laid-back uncle or Nate the moody bad-boy; this is a wholly stealthier version.

  With only a fleeting glance at Faith-in-the-bed he goes straight to the picture on the opposite wall. What’s he doing? It’s hardly fine art. Bland and unexciting, it’s not the sort of picture I imagine would grab his attention.

  He takes something out of his jacket pocket. It’s so small I can’t make it out. He reaches for the top of the picture frame, steps back, looks critically at the picture, nods. Checks the corridor again then, cat-like, steals back out.

/>   Only when he has safely closed the door does he return to normal. He drags a weary hand down his face then turns and watches Faith-in-the-bed through the glass.

  I don’t want him out there. I want him back in the room, holding my hand. Moments ago he was defying the next-of-kin sign, so why observe it now?

  Nurse Bridget approaches and Nate turns, giving her a brief smile. “Hi.”

  Did he know she was coming or was it just a lucky guess?

  “Hi.” She slows. “It’s Nate, right?”

  “Yes.” His smile takes on a flirtatious edge.

  I stare, dumbfounded, at the result. She’s literally fluttering her eyelashes at him. How does he do that?

  “Would you like to sit with Faith?” she asks.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “Just for a few minutes. I don’t think anyone’s going to mind,” she adds in a conspiratorial murmur. “You’re obviously very close to her.”

  “I guess so.” He looks into the room and his face takes on a faraway expression. “Sometimes you don’t realise how close until the connection’s gone.”

  In the silence that follows, I wonder about our closeness. Why does he only guess we’re close? Either we are or we’re not. I know what our relationship used to be, years ago. But what is it now? And why is he so profoundly affected? If only I’d dug deeper into his thoughts when I flatlined.

  Bridget reaches past Nate to open the door, her arm accidentally-on-purpose brushing his. “Remember, she mustn’t be upset in any way.”

  He nods and pulls the chair close to the bed. “Thanks.”

  She hovers at the door.

  Nate looks her way and gives her a heart-stopping smile.

  She blushes, clears her throat, hesitates. “We always say you should talk to them. Hearing’s the last sense to go, so . . . well, I’d talk. Let her hear your voice. It can’t do any harm.”

  “Thanks.” His expression is thoughtful.

  “I’ll come back soon.” She clicks the door quietly shut as she leaves.

  Faith-in-the-bed looks vulnerable tonight. She’s wired for sound, of course—but she’s always like that. And her face is pale, though no paler than it’s ever been. Maybe it’s just a post-flatlining thing; I’m more aware of her vulnerability.

  Nate reaches for her hand and his warmth seeps through to me. It’s delicious. He relaxes, sliding down the chair so he can rest his head against the back, legs straight out in front of him. He closes his eyes, still holding her hand. His breathing slows. And slows.

  Maybe it’s our surroundings, or maybe I’m just jumpy, but suddenly I’m worried. Is he okay? Cripes. Is he still breathing?

  I move close to check, only to leap with fright when he speaks.

  “You scared me, Faith.” His words are audible, but only just. “Don’t go pulling any more stunts like that, eh? It’s not good for my health.”

  My lips curve in an almost-smile. “Or mine.”

  He inhales deeply, exhales long and slow, lapses into silence. The ventilator continues its rhythmic whoosh and suck. Further down the corridor, a pager bleeps.

  Nate’s eyes flick open and he stares straight at me.

  He’s never been able to see me before, so it’s probably pure coincidence he’s looking my way now. On the off-chance it’s not, though, I say, “Hi, Nate.”

  Coincidence wins. His focus shifts to a point beyond me. Even though I wasn’t expecting him to suddenly be clairvoyant, I’m devastated.

  He absently strokes my hand. “So I’m doing my best to get my head around this whole out-of-body thing you’re doing. I’m not saying I don’t believe it, because that bathroom mirror trick was fairly convincing, but it’s . . . well. It’s not normal, is it? People don’t go around talking to ghosts all day. Unless they’re my mother, that is.”

  He chuckles. “And we both know how crazy she is.”

  I’ve only seen her the once and she seemed perfectly sane to me. Quirky, but sane. And, hello, if she can see me the way Tess does, I say bring the woman in. Crazy’s good. Let’s talk.

  His eyes search the ceiling, then he laughs to himself. “Jeeze, maybe I’m the crazy one.”

  “You’re not crazy. But it would help if you were clairvoyant.”

  “She always said it was in the genes.”

  What’s he referring to? Craziness or ghost-whispering? Has he communicated with otherworldly beings before? The thought fascinates me. Maybe he was psychic as a child, but it scared him so he repressed it. Yeah, that works.

  “Do you remember that time we stole her tarot cards? Ma was furious. Chased us with the wooden spoon, threatening to tan our backsides into next week.” He chuckles. “I’ll never forget the look on her face when we dropped the cards at her feet and she saw the way they fell.”

  He stops speaking. His expression sobers.

  My heart skips a beat. “What? What happened?”

  “Her face spooked me more than the spoon. She’d flipped into one of her moods.” Another heavy pause. “Stayed that way for weeks. Took to her bed for days on end, smoking joint after joint and dishing out the usual doomsday predictions. Didn’t snap out of it until she told me what she’d seen in the cards.”

  I watch his face and I’m seeing a frightened little boy, scared of his mother’s mania, terrified he’ll wind up the same, desperate for a normal childhood, determined to find a way . . .

  “She’s the one. Keep her safe. That’s what Ma said. We all tiptoed around her for weeks on end, scared to speak or laugh or even bloody breathe because it might set her off, and all for six words. I never let her tell me another prediction.”

  He looks at Faith-in-the-bed. Reaches out and smooths her hair from her face. In the window I see Nurse Bridget glance in on us.

  “But you know what?” continues Nate. “Ma got it right. You are the one.”

  “Pix . . .” He hesitates, looks down. “That offshore assignment was never meant to take so long. It got . . . complicated.”

  He blows out his cheeks, shakes his head. “I know going incommunicado was the worst thing I could’ve done for us, but I had to do it to guarantee your safety.”

  A gazillion questions storm my mind. He went incommunicado? For how long? What offshore assignment? Who for? Doing what? Why was my safety at risk? If I’m ‘the one’, what exactly does that mean?

  Nate leans close and kisses the ventilator-free side of Faith-in-the-bed’s lips. It’s a tender caress that leaves my own lips, and other sweet places, tingling.

  “You should’ve waited for me,” he says. “Christ, what a mess. You should’ve damn-well waited.”

  # # #

  Why didn’t I wait for him? I must’ve been out of my mind. Would I really turn my back on him so quickly? Am I that much of a flake?

  I watch him as he sleeps, chin resting on chest, sprawled in the chair. Even now I feel the pull between us. And Nate . . . well, he wouldn’t be in this mangy hospital room so late at night if he didn’t care for me.

  Nurse Bridget steals in for the umpteenth time, this time with a blanket. She taps him on the shoulder. He shifts in his chair, murmuring unintelligible sleep-talk.

  “Excuse me. Sir,” she says. Then, “Nate.”

  He stirs, grunts, and blearily opens his eyes.

  “Sorry to wake you,” says Nurse Bridget.

  He straightens in his chair. “No bother. Time’s up, is it?”

  She grimaces. “I’m afraid so. I can’t let you stay in the room overnight, but you’re welcome to sleep in the guest lounge if you like.”

  He stretches, yawns.

  “Sure. Yes, okay.” He rubs a hand down his face then stands. “Good idea.”

  She offers him a smile and a blanket.

  “Thanks,” he says, and she blushes.

  “No problem. Let me know if you need an extra blanket.”

  I watch him leave my room and a band of fresh grief tightens around my chest. I had it all in the palm of my hand
. A great guy, a perfect love, a true-blue Happy Ever After. Why did I pass all that up? Why didn’t I just sit tight and wait?

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper to his departing back. A tear trails down my cheek. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  I don’t understand anything about anything, but I do understand now that I gave up on him. On us. I’m filled with shame. He’s stood by me all these years, watching my back, keeping me safe, being a friend. Even now he’s there for me. I don’t deserve his loyalty.

  “Don’t you worry, Nate, I’ll be fine. I’m coming back to you if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Which, under the circumstances, isn’t a very clever thing to say. But I’m not going to think about that, because I’ve got so much to come back for: Nate, yes, but a beautiful daughter, too.

  And a husband who wants me dead.

  A chill oozes down my spine. I shudder.

  “Don’t give up on me, Nate.” I speak into the darkness. “I let you down once before, but I won’t let you down again. I promise.”

  I just hope to God I can keep that promise.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The ward wakes up and I watch a truck rumble past below. Thanks to the double-glazed windows I don’t hear it at all. It’s as if we’re living in a bubble up here. A little coma bubble.

  But even the protection of a coma bubble can’t protect me from time. This is Day Six. And what have I got to show for it? A best friend who isn’t. An ex-husband who wants me dead. A missing gran. A Death Council watching my every move. And still no way back to my body.

  Standing by the bed, Nate does a full-body, accompanied-by-grunts stretch. His back clicks in a couple of places. As well it might, since he’s just spent the night sleeping down in the guest lounge—which I’m pretty sure is not equipped with beds.

  He stretches again, and his tee rides up, showing . . . Don’t look, don’t look.

  Too late. My pulse picks up.

  I sneak another peek but the abs are gone, hidden beneath his tee again.