The Trouble With Dying Page 5

  Mum wipes a hand over her eyes. “Cynthia said all this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “Cynth and Faith are like this.” He crosses his fingers. “If Faith felt suicidal, she’d probably confide in Cynth.”

  An uneasy, quivery feeling sets up residence in my gut; the kind of feeling you get when you know the chicken you just ate was undercooked and the next few hours are going to be bad.

  Geoff turns on his daughter.

  “Tess. Enough.” He looks like he’s barely holding it together. “It’s a bloody bar of chocolate. I’ll buy you another one. Just . . . shut it, will you?”

  My stomach knots. Suicide or not, doesn’t he see? That frog was magic to her, and now the magic’s broken.

  Tess cries harder, then picks herself up, and runs to her grandmother for a hug. Mum gives him a reproving look.

  For a moment Geoff stands there, watching his mother-in-law comfort his daughter and looking—what? Uncomfortable? Undecided? Unmoved?

  With a brusque, “I’m needed at work,” he shrugs his jacket on.

  His designer suits no longer impress me; not when he’s earning them at the expense of his daughter.

  And now he’s trampling all over her broken chocolate frog. The least he could do is help her clean it up.

  He strides to the door. With surprising speed my mother intercepts him.

  “You’re needed at home, too.” Her voice is soft but her words fall like granite.

  Their eyes lock. Her warm brown versus his steely blue.

  The steely blues break first. “I’ll ring when I’m done.”

  “Geoff, you can’t do this. Now, more than ever, your daughter needs you.”

  “So does work, Kathy. It’s not like I’m abandoning Tess. Why all the drama? Nothing’s changed.”

  Nothing’s changed? Is he really so blinkered, or just plain stupid?

  He speaks to his daughter’s back. “Tess, I have to go to work now. I’ll pick you up from Nan’s later, okay?”

  And before you can say ‘escape-artist’, he’s gone.

  # # #

  Mum wipes Tess’s tears away and cups her face in her hands. “Okay?”

  Tess draws in a raggedy breath and nods. She glances up at me and I blow her a kiss.

  “Love you,” I say, and a glimmer of a smile touches her lips.

  “You’re a good girl.” Mum fossicks in her bag. “Here, I’m going to teach you a card game. Do you know the best place to play cards?”

  Tess shakes her head.

  “On the floor. Because when you’re on the floor, you can shuffle the cards like this.” She tosses them out of the packet any old how, finger-paints them into a mess, grins at Tess, then gathers the cards together again. “See? Shuffled. You don’t have to be a grown-up to shuffle cards. Want to try?”

  She keeps talking, distracting Tess with her chatter, and I feel a surge of gratitude. I love the way she’s there for my daughter.

  I hope Geoff is father enough to be there for her, too.

  Eventually, with Tess playing Solitaire in the corner, my mother pulls up a chair and sits beside Faith-in-the-bed. For a while she simply keeps vigil. Gran appears at my side and watches wordlessly on.

  Mum reaches out a hand and caresses Faith-in-the-bed’s forehead. It comes through to me in a touch so familiar I can feel the memory pushing forward through the fog in my brain.

  “I’m here, love,” she murmurs. Her chin trembles and she pauses, hand to mouth, eyes closed, fighting for control.

  If only I could hug her.

  Finally she opens her eyes again. “Rest, now. Get better.”

  Her hand resumes its slow, everything-will-be-all-right caress and, once again, I’m struck by the sense of familiarity it arouses.

  I turn to Gran. “I think she must have stroked my forehead like that when I was a kid.”

  Mum clasps my hand, scribing a gentle, soothing circle with her finger, and suddenly I’m back in my childhood bed.

  “I’m scared, Mummy.” Remnants of the nightmare sending shudders through my body.

  “You’re safe, darling. It wasn’t real.” Mummy’s hand stroking my forehead in a gentle caress.

  Grabbing her hand. “It took you and you never came back, just like Daddy. It was scary.” Sobbing against her.

  “Ssh. It was a dream. It’s all over now.”

  “What if it comes back?”

  “It won’t, I promise.” Her finger scribing a circle on the back of my hand. “I’m right here, darling, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  Fighting the sleep. Eyes drooping regardless.

  “Ssh. Sleep, now.”

  It’s as if we’ve made a long-distance call, finally got rid of the static, and now the memory of Mum’s comforting touch is coming through loud and clear.

  “I remember her doing that.”

  “Anything else? Your home? School? Friends?”

  “Something about . . . my father.” Was it part of the nightmare, or did Daddy truly disappear? I reach into my mind, probing, stretching, but the memory folds in on itself.

  Disappointed, I shake my head. “It’s gone.”

  I can tell from Gran’s expression she’s as disappointed as me.

  “Everything will be all right, Faith.” Mum rests her head against my hand. Then, so quietly I strain to hear, “Whatever it was, love, don’t end it like this. You’re tougher than that.”

  “Don’t listen to them, Mum,” I say. “Can you hear me? It was an accident.”

  She continues to murmur affirming messages.

  “I’d never commit suicide. You know that.”

  Tess glances up from her cards, and a wave of nausea hits me. Me and my big mouth. I can only hope she doesn’t know the S-word.

  Gran’s voice, gentle, cuts in. “Kathy can’t hear you, Faith.”

  I glare at her. “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “But you’re dead. I’m not. It’s different for me.”

  Gran shakes her head. I tune back in to Mum.

  “… talking,” she is saying. “but it’s hard, getting nothing back. I need something, Faith. Blink, move a finger; anything. Just show you can hear me.” Her voice breaks on the last word and my heart breaks with it.

  “Mum, I hear you. Look up. I’m right here.”

  But she’s not looking. She’s sobbing. And it’s all I can do not to sob with her.

  I bite down hard on my lip. “Mum, don’t cry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry.”

  Tess’s wee brow furrows. She abandons the Solitaire and goes to her grandmother, touching a hesitant hand to her arm. “Nan? Are you okay?”

  Mum makes a gargantuan effort to stifle her sobs. “I’m a bit sad, that’s all.”

  Tess clambers into her lap and hugs her tight.

  “Don’t be sad, Nan. I’ll look after you. Mummy can hear you, and she’ll wake up soon, you’ll see.” She hesitates, bites her lip. Then her face clears. “I know. Let’s play Snap. I’ll even let you win.”

  “Thank you, darling. You’re such a poppet.” Mum dabs at her eyes, clears her throat. “I’d love to play Snap. You shuffle the cards while I go to the bathroom.”

  She heaves herself out of her chair, and as she crosses the room to Faith-in-the-bed’s bathroom I see how the worry is wearing her down. Her gait, stiff and sore, is that of an elderly woman—and it’s all because of me.

  My chest tightens. How can I ease my mother’s pain?

  And my daughter, my poor wee girl.

  “Thanks for looking after Nan, darling.”

  She looks up from her card-dealing and I blow her a kiss. “What a wonderful grand-daughter you are.”

  I’m blessed to have her as my daughter. She’s so thoughtful, brave, and strong—but so very young. Too young to be without her mum.

  How do I fix this?

  Chapter Eight

  Stilettos in the corridor. Voices. A woman’s lau
gh, loud and brash and somehow out of place.

  “Terracotta?” The words carry easily through the wall. “But, Geoff, that’s so last century.”

  I jerk awake, disoriented.

  A murmured response, then the woman’s voice again. “Well, of course. But Faith wouldn’t want you living in limbo, either.”

  I glance around and it all comes flooding back. Me, up here, living in limbo. Me, down there, trapped in the bed.

  Me. Whoever the hell Me is.

  Early-morning tentacles of light reach for the walls. I must have fallen asleep. Strange. I didn’t realise ghosts slept.

  “You’re not a ghost,” chimes in Gran, and I leap in alarm.

  “Stop doing that.”

  “What? Listening to your thoughts? How else do you expect us to help out on the Earth plane?”

  “No, not that,” I say, though it is a bit unsettling. I mean, she could be reading every thought I have. Every last, private one . . . and the less I think about that the better.

  “I mean, you need to stop scaring me like that.”

  “Sorry.” Her eyes twinkle. “You’ll get used to it. Now, what’s going on?”

  I follow her gaze. My husband has arrived, this time with a tall, chic redhead. The stilettos I heard are actually knee-high tan suede boots, and matched with that cream ensemble of thigh-length, figure-hugging dress and full, oversized coat, she looks like she’s just stepped off a catwalk.

  I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s stunning. But why would she wear an outfit like that—something suitable for an upmarket restaurant—to a hospital?

  “Who’s the woman?” I ask, but Gran doesn’t answer. She must be really spooked by this Death Council thingie.

  The redhead stands over Faith-in-the-bed, eyes closed. A tear escapes, trickling down her cheek. She dabs it away.

  “Oh, Faith,” she murmurs. “How did you end up here?”

  “Good question.” Head cocked to one side, I study her. “Here’s another one: who are you?”

  Geoff approaches and, after a moment’s hesitation, places a hand on the redhead’s back. She turns into his arms and gently weeps. I haven’t seen my husband so . . . I don’t know, human before. I watch, fascinated.

  “Sorry,” she says. “This is bad enough for you without me ruining your suit as well.”

  “I have a good drycleaner.” A smile tugs at his mouth.

  Her answering smile is tremulous.

  They turn to stand, side-by-side, looking down on Faith-in-the-bed.

  “So. What now?” she asks.

  He shrugs. “Business as usual, I guess. We get on with our day, our week, probably our god-damn year if the doctors have their way.”

  She places a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry, Geoff.”

  He sighs. “Yeah. Me too, Cynth. Me too.”

  So this is Cynthia; my best friend. I study her more closely, but she doesn’t feel like someone I know. Not that anyone does these days.

  She looks up at Geoff. “Is there any chance she’ll . . . ?”

  Another shrug. “Oh, there’s every chance. She’s fighting fit, apparently. Could wake up in a few minutes.” Bitterness seeps into his voice. “Or decades.”

  Cynthia looks at him, appalled.

  “That’s awful,” she says, then quickly qualifies it with, “That you might have to wait so long, I mean.”

  “Don’t worry,” I call out, “I’m not planning on making anyone wait. I’ll be back sooner than you think.”

  At least, I hope so. Heaven help me if I’m stuck up here for thirty freaking years, watching myself slip into old age, my life unlived and not able to do a sodding thing about it. That would be hell.

  “Seriously,” says Geoff, “I think I’d rather pull the plug.”

  My heart slams up to my throat. “No! You can’t!”

  Cynthia’s eyes skitter around the room. “Really?”

  Indignant fury surges through me. How dare he?

  He takes a deep breath. “I—”

  “Geoff Carson,” I say, loud enough to be heard from the corridor. “No way, buster.”

  I’m surprised to see him pause.

  “Don’t you even think about pulling plugs. I’m alive. You married me. Married me. For better or worse.” I imagine myself stabbing a finger in his chest. “So how about a bit of loyalty—” finger-stab “—eh?”

  My head swims, and a micro-second later I’m standing in front of him, finger still stabbing. And maybe the message is actually getting through, because Geoff’s looking mighty unsettled.

  He backs up a step. Looks down, looks up; anywhere but at me. Another bracing inhalation, and he meets the redhead’s grey-eyed gaze. “Can you imagine what it would do to Tess, to me, if we had this hanging over us forever?”

  “Hey,” I retort. “I’m not planning on being like this any longer than I can help it.”

  Cynthia places a hand on his forearm and gently strokes. “You’ve got to do what’s right for you.”

  “You’ve got to do what’s legal, actually,” says Gran crisply, and I shoot her a bewildered glance.

  “Euthanasia’s illegal,” she explains. “Here in New Zealand, at least.”

  New Zealand. We live in a place called New Zealand.

  Gran’s lips tighten. She glances nervously left and right.

  “I’d better go.” She tuts quietly. “I’m not doing this very well, am I? Sorry, darling. It’s a fine line. Too fine,” she mutters.

  And then she’s gone. Just like that.

  Frustration tightens my neck. I wish she’d chill out on this rules-of-Death thing. It’s not like she’s told me anything useful. New Zealand. So what? It’s only a name. I’m none the wiser for having heard it. It’s triggered nothing for me. No memories, no feelings; nothing.

  Geoff turns to face Cynthia, and a phwick of energy shifts within me as his arm passes right through my torso.

  He catches her hand in his. “Cynth, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.”

  Geoff holds her gaze, his expression a mix of gratitude and weariness.

  Almost as an afterthought he releases her hand. He clears his throat, checks the time. “I’d better head into work.”

  Faith-in-the-bed can’t be affronted, but I sure am. Why bother coming in if he isn’t going to take the time to sit with her. He hasn’t even held her—my—hand. He’s had more contact with this Cynth woman than his own wife.

  “How about a coffee first?” suggests Cynthia.

  Geoff tugs at his shirt-collar, glances at Faith-in-the-bed, nods. “Okay.”

  He steps close to the bed. Hesitates, then kisses his wife’s forehead.

  I blink. Well, then. Considering his attitude to Faith-in-the-bed when he didn’t have anyone else with him, that kiss is quite a turnaround. Maybe he has a shred of decency in him, after all.

  Or maybe he’s just keeping up appearances.

  Cynthia waits at the door.

  “Geoff,” she says, voice soft, “come on. You’re exhausted. Faith doesn’t even know you’re there.”

  He sighs, then straightens. Looks down on Faith-in-the-bed. “And that’s the problem in a nutshell, isn’t it?”

  He meets Cynthia’s gaze. “How long do we drag this out?” He indicates my comatose body. “That’s not Faith. Not really. I’m not convinced she’ll ever be back.”

  “Hey,” I call out. “You can’t give up on me that easy. I’m here!”

  Cynthia regards him with sympathy. Then, sighing, she holds a hand out to him.

  “Coffee,” she says.

  Geoff takes her hand and follows her out, leaving me to dwell on his words and my reality, harsh as it is. I need to find a way to get back in my body and wake up, because if I don’t I’ll be dead. Killed by my own husband.

  My teeth clench tight. Well. I’d better get back in my body fast, then.

  Get back in my body . .
.

  Of course. I laugh at my own foolishness. Why didn’t I think of it earlier? Now I can move it’s simple. Climb back into my body; nightmare over.

  With heightened senses I narrow my focus until all I see is Faith-in-the-bed. Nothing else exists. No equipment, no nurses, no room; just me and the body I’m about to reclaim.

  Physically I’m doing well—the doctors have said as much—so breaking out of this coma must be a mind thing. I square my shoulders. No problem. My mind is absolutely ready to wake up, take control, and get on with life.

  Well. Ninety-five percent ready. The other five percent is consumed by fear.

  Think of the risk. What if your body’s too weak?

  Only one way to find out.

  What if you really are suicidal?

  I’m not. I’d know.

  What if you wake up and hate your life?

  I swallow. My chest tightens. Cripes. What then?

  No. I shake my head, as if I can fling the fear far, far away. My life is not a fixed arrangement. I can change it—rip out the bad, add to the good—but only if I’m alive. Alive and fully functional.

  What if you die trying?

  Better to die trying to live than live waiting for death, right?

  Right. So I’m going to get back in my body and live. Now.

  I fix my gaze on Faith-in-the-bed and take several deep, you-can-do-this breaths. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four. I’m going to move over there-two-three-four. Now. I’m going to reclaim my body-two-three-four.

  Blood rushes in my ears. I think angry thoughts. My jaw tightens. My lungs heave. I let the rage grow. Focus . . . Focus . . .

  . . .

  I look around. Yes! It worked!

  Well, mostly. Bedside’s not quite where I wanted to be, but it’s close. Now I just have to climb into my body and we’re done.

  My heart flip-flops. A line on the monitor judders. Out in the corridor a nurse bustles by.

  I tentatively sit on the edge of the bed—which isn’t as easy as it sounds since I can’t actually feel the bed. Then, carefully, I swing my legs up so I’m fully on the bed, sitting as close as I can get without overlapping Faith-in-the-bed’s—my—body.

  I take a moment to look down at the two versions of me, side by side. My stomach tightens. My nerves go on high alert. They know what’s coming. That feeling—when somebody passes through me—is extremely unsettling. Literally and figuratively. It’s not painful, exactly, but it’s certainly an invasion.