The Trouble With Dying Read online

  And I’ll be pretty miffed, too.

  As if she’s read my mind, Sylvia reaches for her cloak and shrugs into it. “Sorry, son, I have to dash. I’m expected at the police station soon.”

  Excellent, I think. Go. Leave me the hell alone.

  “Why?”

  “I have an appointment there.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? What for?”

  She says nothing, apparently fully focused on buttoning her cloak. And I stand by, silent and still, wishing she’d hurry up and leave. I don’t give a toss why she has an appointment with the police; clearly they don’t suspect her or they’d be taking her in for questioning, not offering her a cute little appointment slot.

  I need to warn Nate, tell him Sylvia’s real reason for being here. This time I won’t put it off. I’ll tell him as soon as she’s left. That way he’ll be ready for her when she returns.

  Really, Faith? And what will you say? I’m scared of your mum? Your mum tried to murder me? Your mum’s spooky woo-woo’s gonna kill me?

  Urgency cedes to despondence. I can’t say any of that to him. He won’t believe me. This is his mother we’re talking about.

  “Ma? Stop ignoring me. What’s the appointment about?”

  Through the window I watch as she secures the last button and at last meets her son’s gaze.

  “I was there,” she says. “I’m a witness.”

  A witness. That’s rich.

  “What?”

  “I know. What are the chances? But—” she shrugs “—it’s true. I was outside her apartment block when she fell.”

  Nate stares at her. “Jesus. Did you see what happened?”

  “No. I just heard a scream. Then saw her hit the ground.”

  “Jesus,” he repeats, wiping a hand down his face.

  “I was on my way to visit Faith,” says Sylvia. “I’d had one of my visions and it was about her. I needed to warn her, because I saw her fall to her death.”

  She lifts a hand to her hair and I notice it’s shaking. “It was so vivid, and so violent, that I dropped everything and caught the first bus over. But—” her voice breaks “—I was too late.”

  Nate pulls her in for a hug, and I watch through the window, wondering what to believe. Is Sylvia telling the truth? It sounds plausible . . . but it’s equally plausible she’s lying her lips off.

  For a moment I hesitate—I could be about to sign my own death warrant—then, quickly in case I change my mind, I merge back into my room.

  The air is heavy with emotion. Grief? Guilt? I can’t tell which.

  Nate gently releases his mother, holding her at arm’s length. “Ma, why didn’t you go to the police earlier?”

  “I tried. But as soon as I mentioned my vision, they couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. They didn’t think I was a credible witness.” She sighs. “There are a lot of small-minded people out there, son.”

  “Yeah.” Nate looks uncomfortable. I guess he’s thinking about how small-minded he’s been himself. “So talk me through it. What did you see? Is there anything that struck you as odd?”

  “Not really. All I saw was Faith, lying in a crumpled heap. I ran straight to her, expecting the worst, but miraculously she was still breathing.”

  Sylvia pauses to dab away a tear. “She wasn’t conscious. Probably just as well, after a fall like that. I rang for an ambulance, of course, and stayed with her until it arrived.”

  “And did you see anyone else?”

  “A bit of a crowd gathered. The usual rubberneckers. Someone brought a blanket. A man.” She draws a shaky breath. “Sorry, I don’t remember what anyone looked like. I was focused on Faith.”

  Suddenly I’m hearing her thoughts—much as Gran must do with me, actually. Which sounds ominously like death is closing in, but I force myself to set that aside. For now I need to search Sylvia’s thoughts.

  “It’s fine, Ma. You did great.”

  Sifting through someone’s thoughts is much like running through a maze. No path leads where you expect. But all I find is concern for my welfare; nothing remotely murder-ish. I dig deeper into her mind, increasingly excited as I realise it’s working, yet worrying all the while that she’s going to feel my intrusion. She doesn’t seem to notice, though; another indication her distress is genuine.

  “The paramedics wouldn’t let me go with her in the ambulance,” she continues, “but it felt safe to me so I didn’t argue.”

  My search yields nothing even remotely suspicious. I’m forced to admit I was wrong. Sylvia wasn’t involved in my near-death; rather, she was one of the first on the scene and came to my aid.

  Which means Sylvia’s on my side.

  I send a silent thank you to the cosmos that I don’t have to give Nate any killer-in-the-family news—or hide from Sylvia any longer.

  Sadly, it looks like I’ve missed my chance to talk to her.

  “I’ll call you later, Nathan,” she says, adjusting her coat.

  “Okay.” Then, as his mother walks to the door, “Love you, Ma.”

  She turns, affection softening her features. “And I love you.”

  With one last look at Faith-in-the-bed she leaves—only to stop abruptly as Tess races past me with a “Hi, Mummy,” and skids to a halt in front of Sylvia.

  “Sorry,” gasps Tess between puffs.

  Then, spotting Nate, she lunges at him. “Uncle Nate!”

  Sylvia watches on, her apparent shock and surprise quickly veiled as Nate looks her way.

  “Ma, this is Tess, Faith’s daughter. Tessabelle, this is my mum.”

  Tess twists herself around Nate’s leg then shoots Sylvia a shy look.

  “Hello, Tess.” Sylvia smiles warmly. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  She takes a good long look at Tess, and maybe she recognises Tess is psychic because she looks sharply at Nate and opens her mouth to speak, then thinks better of it.

  She transfers her gaze back to Tess. “I bet you’re being a wonderful nurse to your mum.”

  Tess emerges from behind Nate’s leg. “She’s resting so she can get better and come back.”

  “That’s good.” Sylvia pauses a moment. She breathes slowly in and out, in and out, then says, “Mummy’s trying to remember everything, but it’s hard for her.”

  Her eyes refocus on Tess. “Do you have a family photo album you could bring in for her?”

  Tess bites her lip as she thinks, then her face lights up. “Yes. It’s really heavy, but I’ll get Nan to help me. She’s coming now. She’s just talking to a nurse.”

  “Excellent. Well, I’d better go or I’ll be late.” And with a brief smile for Tess, then Nate, she leaves the room—via me.

  She starts. I gasp.

  “Faith,” she murmurs.

  She glances at her watch.

  “Curses,” she says to herself. “I’m out of time.”

  She closes her eyes, though, takes a couple of meditative breaths then says, “Faith, you feel anxious and trapped. But please, try not to panic. Pause, think, act. That’s the only way forward.”

  “Don’t go,” I plead. “I need your help.”

  “The best help I can give you is to get the police to listen to me. I’ll return, I promise. Meanwhile, Nathan’s here for you. Kia kaha, darling.”

  Stay strong? I watch her hurry off down the corridor, my best link with the world, and curse myself for being the biggest fool ever. Because that’s what I am. I passed up my best opportunity yet to communicate freely with someone who can really help. Sylvia’s a skilled psychic, for crying out loud, and I hid. Hid. She’s no murderer; I should’ve known that. But it’s too late now: she’s gone, and who knows when she’ll be back?

  Nate checks his watch. Looks at Faith-in-the-bed. Looks at the door.

  Then he turns to Tess and says, “Stay here until Nan gets back. I’ve got to head out for a while.”

  Then he races into the corridor. He passes Mum at the nurses’ station and says, “Kathy, I’ve got to dash. Tess
is in Faith’s room.”

  He waits for her thumbs-up then jogs towards the lifts.

  “Ma,” he calls. “Wait up. I’ll give you a lift.”

  # # #

  Tess and Mum have been and gone. Today’s a busy day for them: visiting me, then off to buy new school shoes for Tess and, more importantly, something special with her birthday money. And now, of course, Tess wants to dash home and collect a photo album for me.

  It’s a great idea, actually, and I’m glad Sylvia suggested it. Geoff didn’t appear quite so enthused when Tess presented the idea to him; in his words, he now has to ‘go hunting for the damn thing’. Frankly, I don’t care whether he’s enthused or not as long as he finds the photo album. Then he can escape back to work and leave the rest of us to enjoy our family memories.

  How exciting! Nervous anticipation sends tingles down to my toes. Maybe this will be the stimulus my brain needs to unlock all my memories.

  For now, though, I’m alone. I’m not good at being alone. I try not to wish the hours away until my next visitor, but I do anyway.

  It’s crazy. I don’t have many hours left; I should be treasuring every single one like a rare jewel, not wishing them all gone.

  I’ve never felt my aloneness more keenly than now. What if I die today, and nobody’s here, and I don’t get to say my goodbyes?

  No amount of what-if-ing will change the reality, of course. Geoff has a business to run. Mum’s taken Tess shopping. Nate is helping Sylvia. And Cynthia . . . presumably she has a job to go to—though I’m not mad keen on her company, anyway.

  So here I am. Alone with Faith-in-the-bed for these few hours. How to while away the time?

  I try meditation. It fails. I try observing others in the ward. It’s boring. I try watching the busy street below. It’s where I want to be. I try talking to Sister. It’s against her rules. I try watching the hands move on the clock. It’s . . .

  . . .

  I wake up with a jolt.

  It’s dark outside. And Nate has just returned with an overnight bag.

  “Hey, Pix,” he says, stowing his bag in the bathroom. “Sorry I took so long. I drove Ma to the police station, then we caught a bite to eat and, well, we spent most of the afternoon chatting, actually.”

  He sits on the edge of the bed and takes one of Faith-in-the-bed’s hands in his. “I bet you didn’t expect that. Me neither. But—” he shrugs “—things are changing. I guess I’m changing. And it’s all your fault,” he adds, his tone mock-stern.

  He blows out his cheeks. “Seriously, Pix, I never thought I’d say this, but I’ve missed Ma so much. I’ve spent most of my life despising her, avoiding her, and I never realised how much I actually missed her. She’s my mum. I love her. Guess it’s pretty simple in the end.”

  He kisses her hand, lets it go, then stands and stretches. It’s a long, deep, bone-clickingly satisfying stretch. He smothers a yawn. “What a day. I’m beat.”

  And with that he lays down on the tiny hospital-issue bed, curling himself around Faith-in-the-bed and her various tubes and wires. He rests his head next to hers on the pillow, gazes at her for a moment, leans in to caress her cheek with his lips, and within seconds is asleep.

  With the echo of his kiss still fluttering against my cheek, I watch over him. He’s a beautiful man, and together we make a beautiful couple.

  Or we would, if we were a couple.

  He manages perhaps eight minutes of sleep before his eyes flick open, his face a silent rictus of pain. He eases himself off the bed and hobbles this way and that, stretching his leg and cursing under his breath and grimacing as he goes. Cramp, by the looks of it.

  Eventually he resettles, this time in the chair next to the bed with his feet propped up on the shower stool from the ensuite. Again, he’s asleep within seconds. How does he do that?

  Nurse Bridget pops in at regular intervals to check everything is okay. Eventually she returns with a blanket. This time, though, she doesn’t wake Nate and banish him from the room; she drapes the blanket over him and silently leaves again.

  I’m glad. He looks so peaceful in sleep, so untroubled, and it feels so right for him to be here.

  I watch the gentle movement of his chest as he breathes, I enjoy these stolen moments together, and I pray. I pray to God and the cosmos and the spirit world and any other entities hanging around that I’ll be granted my second chance at life. I didn’t make good enough use of it the first time around, and I want to put that right. For all of us.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It’s that cold, unearthly time of night when I wake. After midnight, before dawn, when the world is at its most quiet. For a moment I’m disoriented, and then I remember.

  Hospital. Coma.

  And in the next beat—Nate. Gone.

  His absence is a cold wind through my soul. The blanket is carelessly tossed over an arm of the chair. As I move closer I realise he’s not long gone: there’s still an indentation in the seat of the chair which, even as I watch, begins to fade. It must’ve been his movement that woke me.

  The toilet flushes and every last cell in my body jerks fully awake. I tingle with a strange mix of calm and nerves. He’s still here. Good. I don’t want him to leave. And bad. I don’t want to want him like this.

  If Gran were here she’d be chuckling and chortling and embarrassing me beyond belief. The thought brings an unexpected ball of grief to my throat. My chest tightens. My breath jams. I miss her. For all her annoying habits and outrageous clothes, I’ve loved being with her again. And now I feel her absence as keenly as I did seven years ago. What I’d give right now for one of her comments, acerbic as always, but honest and direct and striking straight to the heart of the issue. Which of my issues would she comment on first, I wonder? She has so many to choose from.

  The shower starts, reminding me of Nate’s last shower and my brief, delicious glimpse of him. A pulse flickers in my groin.

  I glance at the door. This showering at the hospital thing isn’t good. Anyone could walk in on him.

  Heat flares.

  Really, Faith? Who’s going to do that at three in the morning?

  I glide the length and breadth of the room, hoping movement will distract me from the heat; from him. It doesn’t. I stare at the closed door. Doors don’t bother me these days.

  Excitement coils in my belly. Screw it. What harm could it do? It’s not like I’d be perving. Technically, my eyes aren’t even open. And it’s not like he’ll see me watching him.

  I merge through and forget to breathe. He’s naked. Well, almost naked. But his towel doesn’t really count; it’s more flannel than towel. Too small to do anything useful.

  Large enough to set my imagination running wild, though. My heart races.

  I turn away then instantly regret it. I can’t not look. I need to look. He’s gorgeous. I turn back and greedily take in his hard, tanned, body. Clothes on him are an insult. A body this hot should be on show for the world to admire.

  It’s steaming up fast in here, in more ways than one. I move closer. He’s built like an athlete. My breath quickens. My hands itch to touch him. He must work out. A lot. And my libido clearly doesn’t give a toss about its silly old coma. I run my tongue over too-dry lips. Allow myself to imagine his skin touching mine.

  Closer still. We’re now only inches apart. Hot need swells in me. A pulse throbs, low and slow. This is insane. I want him so bad.

  His towel drops to the floor. My thoughts scramble.

  He steps away from me under the shower and braces his arms against the wall, letting water cascade over his body. He’s beautiful.

  As I watch, the heat relaxes his body. The tension in his shoulders eases. He slowly turns one-eighty under the water, and now he’s facing me. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m heat under pressure with no chance of release.

  He tilts his head back, eyes closed against the spray, and runs his fingers through his hair. I’m jealous. It should be my fingers doing the massagi
ng.

  And—why not? I have energy to channel. If my heat levels are any indication, I could probably power the whole city tonight.

  I shimmy in so close we threaten to merge. Will the water fall straight through me or will it bounce off me? If it bounces off me Nate will notice, for sure, and he’ll know I’m a pervy little ghost-on-heat taking advantage of him when he least expects it.

  I’m okay with that. This might be my last ghost-on-heat opportunity ever.

  I reach out a hand, under the water, and am almost disappointed when the water’s journey doesn’t change.

  My hand is a hair’s breadth from his chest. The heat intensifies. Death by lust: it could be worse, I suppose. I have a sudden image of Geoff racing in to kill me, only to find me dead already, poached in my own juices as I watched Nate in the shower.

  If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the fire. Gran’s favourite saying, especially after she’d done a round with the Inland Revenue Department. It must be genetic, because I’m loving this heat.

  I cover his hand with mine, intertwining our fingers, imagining, energising, visualising our hands linked. My hand tingles.

  “Christ,” he mutters. “Get out of my head, girl.”

  A downward glance. He lets out a quiet groan. I follow his gaze and, oh God, is spontaneous combustion possible in my other-worldly state? Because seriously, I’m flaming up here and in desperate need of release.

  I lean ever so slightly forward and our bodies are now touching, if only we could feel it. I close my eyes and try to imagine his erection against me, hard and sensual. It’s not happening, dammit. What am I doing wrong? I can’t feel it, and I’m desperate to feel it—him—us.

  I look into his eyes—come on, Nate, see me—and move my lips over his, closing my eyes once more as I imagine the soft fullness of his mouth against mine, the touch of tongue against tongue, the rough scratch of—

  My breath hitches. He kissed me. He kissed me.

  And now the heat is really on because I can feel his lips on mine. Not in some second-hand, indirectly through my physical body way, but in a real-time, here and now, this is absolutely happening way.