The Trouble With Dying Page 3

  Tess’s face crumples. “It might. We have to try, Nan.”

  Nate and Kathy share a loaded glance.

  A tear escapes down Tess’s cheek, and another. “I’ll look after it. I’ll make it better, I promise.”

  She looks up at my mother, her eyes full of tragedy, and I’m struck by the strongest feeling of déjà vu. She turns her tragic little eyes to me and the feeling intensifies. My head pounds.

  “He’s not moving.”

  “No.” Those eyes. Those tragic little eyes. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry.”

  How do I explain death to such a trusting young mind when I still don’t understand it myself? “Sometimes . . . sometimes animals get sick and die and there’s nothing we can do to save them.”

  Tess dropping to her knees, hugging the broken little bird to her chest. “Don’t die. I’ll look after you. I’ll make you better. Mummy, help me make him better.”

  “I wish I could, darling, but I can’t. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Not even with people?”

  And this is why parenting is the hardest job in the world. “No, darling. Not even with people.”

  I return to the present and the knowledge that today’s little bird needs to be nurtured and needs to live and if I was any kind of mother, dammit, I’d be making sure I was at my daughter’s side to help her make it happen.

  If I was any kind of mother. The thought jams in my mind like a scratched CD. But Tess is still holding my gaze with those tragic eyes, waiting for me to make everything okay. I have to say something. What?

  “Darling, you’ve been looking after your wee bird really well, and I know you’ll keep looking after it as long as you can. But life doesn’t always work out the way we want. Sometimes animals get really sick, or badly hurt . . .”

  “Like people,” she says, blinking back tears, and it’s one of those poignant kiddie comments that spears a hole in my half-dead heart.

  “Yes. Like people.” I take a rallying breath. “Like me. And I’m so proud of you for looking after your baby bird because that’s what the doctors are doing with me, and the birdie and I are doing our best to get better as fast as we can. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  We share a tremulous smile.

  “Darling,” I say, “I’ll be back in my body as soon as I can. I promise.”

  Her wee bird might not make it, but I have to. She needs her mum.

  Death is not an option.

  Chapter Four

  I miss my family. They’ve barely been gone an hour and already the solitude—not to mention this whole rooted-to-the-spot thing—is getting to me.

  And if I’m feeling like this now, imagine how crazy this warped alternate reality will make me after a week, or month, or—God help me—a year.

  A year. How many hours is that? The boredom alone would kill me.

  I’m still trying to add up the hours when two men arrive. I turn their way, ridiculously grateful for the distraction.

  One of the men, a doctor, enters the room, passing by me so close that my whole body tenses, waiting for the rollercoaster feeling. It doesn’t happen, thank goodness, and I allow myself to breathe again.

  The doctor stops at the foot of the bed and scans Faith’s medical chart. Gran appears out of nowhere and studies the chart over his shoulder, expression sober.

  The other man remains in the doorway, a grim expression on his face. “What—there’s no change at all?”

  Nice suit. It just reeks of Italian made-to-measure. He must be loaded.

  And how is it I can remember what Italian made-to-measure looks like, but not my own name?

  Maybe I’m Italian. I scour my memories for Italian words, phrases, names . . .

  Nothing.

  “Who’s the Suit?” I ask in a stage-whisper as Gran glides to my side.

  Gran shakes her head, flicks her black rocker hair off her face then sshes me, pointing at the Suit meaningfully. As in, listen and learn. I compress my lips. Can’t she just tell me?

  “. . . a week already . . .” The Suit runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. I take in the bags under his eyes, the days-old stubble.

  “. . . hasn’t moved a muscle . . .”

  He really does look dog tired.

  “. . . not even breathing on her own . . .”

  ‘Her’ being me, presumably.

  “. . . vegetable . . .”

  The doctor moves to the monitor and inspects the lines snaking across the screen. He nods, but I can’t make out any details.

  “. . . wouldn’t want . . .”

  The doctor writes some notes on Faith-in-the-bed’s hospital chart. I wish I could see what he’s written.

  He replaces the chart and waits for the Suit to stop talking. “I know you’re worried, but please understand everything is going as well as can be expected.”

  “I see.” The Suit’s hand clenches, splays, re-clenches at his side. “How long do we wait, then? When do we pull the plug?”

  The phrase hits the base of my gut with a ten-pound-weight thud. My heart hammers too hard, too fast. My vision wobbles, distorts, clears.

  I look at Gran, trying to quell the rising panic. “If they pull the plug doesn’t that mean I’ll—” The D-word sticks in my throat.

  She returns my gaze calmly, but her pink-booted toe does that nervous little tap-a-tap-tap I recognise from her living years. “Do you see now why there’s no time to lose?”

  In the background the monitor starts beeping. Gran glances sharply towards the sound, as does the Suit.

  “Faith,” says Gran. “Calm yourself.”

  “Mr Carson,” says the doctor, “it’s early days yet . . .”

  Dry-mouthed, I take in his words. Early days. As in, this could be me, trapped in this . . . state, for who knows how long?

  Beep, beep, beep-freaking-beep. Fear morphs into irritation. Am I going to have this racket in my ears for the rest of my life? I mean, for the rest of—oh God, what do I mean? My irritation dissolves, and in its place is despair. Am I never going to be able to make random life-and-death comments again?

  Increasingly woozy, I watch the Suit’s reaction to the doctor’s words; the locked jaw, the sharp movements, the glowering eyes. Nausea hits. The beeps grow more urgent. The doctor pauses to recheck the monitor.

  “I mean it,” says Gran. “Slow down. Deep breaths, darling. Right now. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. Control.”

  I gulp in air, trying not to be desperate about it, failing. I try again, counting to four, managing two, doing it again and again until, finally, the monitor falls silent and Gran nods.

  “Good,” she says.

  Meanwhile the doctor has continued where he left off.

  “. . . not long for someone in a coma . . . difficult time . . . focus on the positives . . .”

  Oh, come on. There’s nothing positive about this. Nothing.

  Gran’s brow arches. Clearly she’s still reading my thoughts. “What happened to my cup-half-full girl?”

  “No idea. Guess the cup got smashed.”

  For a moment the worry is gone from Gran’s eyes, replaced by sparkle. “At least you still have your sense of humour.”

  She chucks me under the chin, but I don’t feel it.

  “No, you won’t feel anything like that.”

  “Why not?”

  Gran speaks, but the doctor’s voice cuts across her words. “. . . things considered, your wife is . . .”

  My head snaps round.

  His wife?

  Gran moves silently aside. My eyes, locked on the Suit, grow round. She—I—am that man’s wife?

  I stare at the Suit, shocked. How can I be married to him? I’m married to Nate.

  Aren’t I?

  Not that this man’s ugly or repulsive—he’s actually quite hot, in a businessman-of-the-year kind of way. But I don’t know him. I have no recollection of him at all, no sense of . . . anything. At least with Nate I feel a connection—but
with this man? Nothing. And I’m married to him. Which means I’ve kissed him, had sex with him, smelled his farts, the whole nine yards.

  I must know this man, this Mr Carson, intimately. So why don’t I remember him?

  “. . . head injuries are never . . .”

  Of course. A head injury. That’ll be why my memories are gone.

  Well, if it’s just a nasty head-knock with a bit of concussion tossed in, time and crossed fingers should fix that, right? My memories will return. I just have to be patient.

  But what if they don’t? My throat closes over. What if, under all those bandages, my brain’s a pulpy, irretrievable, mushed-up mess?

  The men continue talking, the doctor’s tone placating, the Carson guy—my husband—irate, and I hear nothing. I’m looking at my comatose body, the wires and tubes and assisted breathing, and all I see is brain squidge. Oozing, gloopy brain squidge.

  My past may be gone forever.

  And I haven’t the slightest clue if it was one worth keeping.

  Chapter Five

  “Faith.” Gran’s voice comes at me from a great distance. “Faith! Snap out of it!”

  The no-nonsense click of her fingers in my face forces me back to reality—or whatever this is—in time for the doctor’s conclusion.

  “… And then we’ll reassess.” He pauses, studies my medical chart, then looks up at my husband. “Faith’s injuries are severe, but her brain activity appears normal so . . .”

  But if my brain is normal, where are all my memories? I tune him out and try yet again to dredge up even one.

  “. . . -ibly lucky.”

  Tight-jawed, my husband doesn’t respond. A nervous tick jerks at the corner of his eye.

  “It’s a coma,” adds the doctor. “It’s going to take time.”

  My husband’s face turns red, then puce. “Time. Time! You speak as if I’ve got all the time in the world. But time is money, Doctor.” He grinds out his words. “And every day I spend here, waiting for my wife to decide if she’s living or dying, is another day of my life wasted.”

  My heart slows. My skin crawls. Who is this man? Cold dislike oozes from my pores. How could I have taken him as my husband? It feels wrong, a puzzle piece that just won’t fit.

  The doctor’s face closes, clam-like.

  “Well.” He busies himself with my chart, writing notes. Finishes with a stabbing full-stop. Replaces the chart in the slot. Stows the pen in his chest pocket, turns abruptly towards the door. Then stops, turns. “Rest assured, Mr Carson, we are doing everything in our power to assist Faith in her recovery.”

  He slips out the door, clicking it quietly shut. My husband scowls at the door, then re-angles the chair so it’s facing away from the bed. He sits, foot jiggling with tension. Then pulls out his mobile phone and checks his messages.

  “Well, then.” Gran is first to break the silence.

  I round on her. “I married that? Why?”

  Gran doesn’t answer.

  “But . . . what about Nate? I don’t understand. Why on earth would I want to marry him?” I indicate my husband. “You should’ve stopped me.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “As I recall, you weren’t interested in anyone else’s thoughts on the matter. You were most determined.”

  “God knows why.” I sure don’t. I can’t recall a single thing.

  Gran says nothing. She’s too busy gazing at—through—the wall.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to go,” she murmurs, already partially transparent.

  “No!”

  I feel her hesitation and push harder. “Don’t go, Gran. I need you. Everything’s crazy and I’m stuck here with my body over there and I’m married to a slimeball and I’ve got no idea what happened . . . But you know. You can help me. Please. Stay.”

  “Oh, darling,” she murmurs, “I know it’s hard.”

  “One hint, that’s all I need. Something, anything. Help me remember.”

  “Your memories are there, Faith. In your body, waiting for you.”

  “Then help me get back to my body.”

  “Help yourself, Faith. You’re alive. You have a chance. Use it, before it’s too late.”

  “But—”

  She re-solidifies long enough to wag an arthritic finger at me.

  “Enough of the buts.” She gives an exasperated sigh. “Can’t you see I’m trying to save your bacon, Faith? Which isn’t easy with the Death Council breathing down my neck. I’ll be back when it’s safe. Meanwhile, don’t try to remember. That’ll happen when it happens. Work out how to move instead.”

  And, before I can quiz Gran further, she’s gone. But her voice, rapidly fading, rings clear in my head. “Seven days? It’s too big an ask. We’ll never do it.”

  # # #

  Anxiety gnaws at me. Gran sounded worried—really worried. What has she—we—got to do? And is seven days all I’ve got? Seven days until he pulls the plug on my life?

  My throat closes over, as if fighting a hangman’s noose.

  I look across the bed at the hangman, my husband. The shadows under his eyes and grooves in his face tell me, yes, he’s tired.

  Not too tired to work, though.

  Maybe he’s just too tired to have a wife.

  What on earth did I see in him? The only feeling he evokes in me is loathing. And, judging by the expression on his face, the feeling’s mutual. What basis is that for a marriage?

  Neck tight, he oozes agitation as he looks at Faith-in-the-bed. He runs his fingers through his hair again and exhales loudly. He stands, then sits, then stands again. Begins pacing. The room’s too small for pacing, though, and soon he stops at the window, arms folded, legs straight, expression dour.

  Outside, it’s a stunning afternoon. The sky’s an indecent shade of blue; the sort of blue travel brochures achieve with digital enhancement. And the golds and rusts of autumn add to the vibrancy of this world I don’t recall.

  I doubt my husband sees any of it, though. All he sees is his own entrapment.

  But what about mine?

  Finally he turns back to the bed. “Time’s up, Faith.”

  My heart lurches up to my throat. Already? He can’t do that. What about the seven days?

  He moves closer and stands looking down at Faith-in-the-bed, a grim expression on his face. My pulse races. I forget to breathe.

  “You wanted attention?” he says. “Fine. You got it. But enough’s enough. I know the way you work.”

  What does he mean? His tone’s implying I’m a scheming, manipulative bitch, but I’m not that kind of woman.

  Am I?

  His phone buzzes and he turns away. I drag in a shaky breath.

  He checks the message, muttering, “I don’t have time for this,” and I know full well he’s not referring to the phone message.

  Why can’t the doctor be my husband? At least he has time for me.

  My fear subsides, leaving revulsion in its wake. “You bastard. You self-centred bastard.”

  He doesn’t hear, though. To him I’m invisible, non-existent.

  Ditto Faith-in-the-bed. I look across at her. That poor woman. Her life must be hell.

  Outrage swells in my chest. How dare he? How dare he choose work over his wife, then accuse her of attention-seeking?

  He scrolls through his messages, taps a few replies, and my indignation escalates. She’s in a coma, for crying out loud. She’s struggling to live. And while he’s worrying about a measly hour or two of work, I’m stuck here, caught between life and death with no way out.

  Jerk.

  “It’s not all about you, you know.” I spit out the words.

  He pockets his phone and paces back and forth, scowling intermittently at the bed.

  “Don’t blame her,” I protest. “She’s—”

  He stops and looks my way, staring straight through me with such cold intensity I falter. Nerves get the better of me. I glance over my shoulder, but nobody’s there. It’s just us—and his tho
ughts.

  Keen to put some distance between us, I try once more to move back to the ceiling. Nothing happens.

  Abruptly he pulls out his phone once more, holding it to his ear. “Hello? Yes, I got it. No, it’s not going to work. You’ll need to . . .”

  Why can’t I move? Where the heck is Gran when I need her?

  “Mr Carson?” A uniformed policeman appears in the doorway, with a second close behind.

  “Yes.” He affords them the barest of glances, the phone glued to his ear.

  “Could we have a few moments of your time?”

  My husband’s lips compress.

  “Something’s come up. I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone, then pockets it. “What is it? As you can see—” his eyes flicker towards the bed “—I have a lot on my plate at the moment.”

  “Sure,” I mutter. “Use her when it suits you.”

  “I understand, sir,” says the policeman. “My condolences. Actually, my partner and I have a few questions we need to ask.”

  Both officers step into the room.

  “Are you happy to answer them here?” The policeman glances at Faith-in-the-bed. “Or would you prefer to come down to the station?”

  To my left, my husband bristles. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Here’s fine, but make it snappy. I’m a busy man.” He faces them, his stance casual but coiled, a gangster ready to draw his gun.

  On my right the second officer, a woman, glances at her partner. Raises one brow, clears her throat. I look from her to my husband to the policeman and back to my husband. It’s like the calm before the storm.

  “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time,” the policeman says, opening his notebook. “Mr Carson, when did you last see your wife before her alleged accident?”

  “Alleged? Are you saying it wasn’t an accident?”

  “No, I’m not saying that,” the officer says, his voice measured. “We’re just following due process. Did you see Mrs Carson before her accident?”

  “What—in the middle of the day? I was working. Some of us have to do that, you know.”

  The officers watch him. He watches them. Nobody speaks. The tension in the room is palpable, and I’m stuck between them, an invisible piggy in the middle.