The Trouble With Dying Page 6

  Will it feel worse this time because I’m invading myself?

  Stop thinking, I tell myself, it’ll be fine, it’ll be over before I know it, just do it already.

  But it’s like tying your tooth to the door handle and knowing all you have to do is slam the door.

  I take a deep breath. Then, hands to the mattress, I push down and lift my hips so I can shuffle into my body. Except my hands plunge straight through the mattress, leaving me almost upside down and gasping in surprise.

  I stop and take stock. Okay, this is just a mind game. I need to imagine it, not force the action. Imagine it, imagine it, imagine it. Slowly, carefully, I imagine myself rising off the bed, moving to the right. A pause to check I’m centred over Faith-in-the-bed, then I imagine lowering myself gently down . . . down . . . stop.

  So far so good. My backside feels weird; as if it’s been hooked up to electrodes and shot full of amps for the past half hour. But it’s bearable. I can do this.

  Still visualising like crazy, I move my legs until they’re superimposed on Faith-in-the-bed’s. I wait a couple of beats then wiggle my toes, but the blanket doesn’t move. Which means I haven’t reconnected with my body yet. I sigh, trying not to feel disappointed.

  That electric, tingly, on-edge feeling has spread through my whole lower body now. Soon it’ll reach my stomach. My palms grow clammy. I hate nausea. Have to finish this fast.

  I turn and quickly note Faith-in-the-bed’s head and face. Eyes closed, relaxed brow, no smile, facing the ceiling; got it. I lie down then raise my head, checking my body and arms are in position.

  Suddenly self-conscious, I glance at the door. Not that anyone would be able to see me even if they did walk in, but still . . .

  Quickly now, I lower my head and mimic Faith-in-the-bed’s expression.

  Last task: close my eyes.

  The vibrations flood higher and higher until even my eyeballs are trembling. I grit my teeth to stop them chattering. A wave of little-girl-lost washes over me. I miss Gran.

  Crap. My eyes ping open. I didn’t say goodbye to Gran. Will I still be able to see her afterwards? Will my memories return? Will I—

  Don’t think: do.

  I force my eyes closed again and suck in a breath. Here we go. In position. Reclaiming my body . . . now.

  Chapter Nine

  Well? My senses are on high alert. Did it work? Am I back in my body?

  For a moment I’m not sure. Eyes closed, I feel. My body doesn’t feel invaded anymore. That’s a good sign.

  Any other back-in-my-body indicators? Can I feel the bed beneath me?

  No. Shite.

  The tube in my mouth, then. Do I feel that?

  Double shite.

  My stomach churns.

  I open one eye and check my peripheral vision. Yep, the tube is still there. Nope, can’t feel it. Which means—

  “Faith?” Gran looms in front of me, her face close to mine. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  I open both eyes—and stare. She stares right back. The silence booms.

  I frown at her orange ensemble. “You’ve turned Hare Krishna?”

  “Of course not. Clothes don’t maketh the woman.” Her gaze skims up and down the bed. “Neither does a body.”

  “A body sure helps.”

  “Darling, I’m pleased you’re being proactive and working hard to return to your body, but—oh, for goodness’ sake. Sit up, girl!”

  I heave a sigh, then make like a dog and sit.

  Great. Now I’m sitting in Faith-in-the-bed, for all the world as if she’s a glorified kayak.

  Gran’s lips twitch.

  I glare at her, then extract myself from Faith-in-the-bed and stand beside Gran.

  “In all seriousness,” she says, then drops her voice to a murmur, “there’s something you need to know. I’m not supposed to tell you this but—” she pauses to check the room “—you’re going about this the wrong way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Reuniting with your body isn’t as simple as jumping in your body and wearing it like a robe.” She tugs on her sari, gives me a half-smile. “Receiving a second chance in your body is a privilege that is earned, not taken. It’s bestowed on only the most worthy candidates. Faith, you’re going to have to prove your worthiness before you have any chance of returning to your body.”

  This is sounding ominously exam-ish; demonstrate your knowledge or you don’t graduate.

  “And how exactly do I prove my worthiness?”

  Gran gets that shifty look in her eyes I’ve come to know so well. “Well, obviously, I can’t give you instructions.”

  She stares at me, widening her eyes then dancing them this way and that. It’s got to be some mysterious coded message—unless she’s finally lost her mind.

  She narrows her eyes at me—yep, she heard—then glances über-casually left and right.

  “Just be yourself,” she whispers. “Don’t give up, keep your end goal in sight, and think about the big picture.”

  What big picture? My brow creases. Boggly eyes, talking in riddles; I’m so not cut out for subterfuge.

  “You’ll work it out,” she says at normal volume. Then, whispering again, “But no more of this trying to climb back into your body, okay?”

  Before I can answer she adds, “It’s not up to you, Faith; it’s up to the Death Council. They gather all the evidence they need before they make a decision, and they’ll either re—”

  Hang on. Did she just say the Death Council are gathering evidence on me? Sounds a bit like spying to me.

  “Indeed,” she says, and I find myself looking around the room, half expecting a Grim Reaper lookalike to be skulking there.

  “Trust me,” Gran continues, “when the time is right you won’t need to even think about it: it will just happen. You’ll be back in your body.”

  I look once more at Faith-in-the-bed but this time I take in the whole picture. The medical paraphernalia—wires, drips, ventilator, heart monitor—keeping her alive. And the bruising. Great purple-black continents of them, all over her arms and face.

  My breath catches. Her—my—hold on life is so tenuous.

  Suddenly I don’t want to be this close to my body. It feels too . . . real.

  “Gran,” I manage, my throat swelling around the words, “can you help me back to the ceiling, please?”

  “You don’t need help, dear. Just focus your energy.” She regards me with empathy and concern. “Are you all right?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  A tear escapes.

  “I mean, no.” I feel as if my throat is housing a major dam. “It’s hard. This.” I indicate the room, Faith-in-the-bed. “My . . . oh, everything.”

  I look down at my hand and will it to move. Am ridiculously pleased when it does and I’m able to dash away a treacherous tear.

  “Right,” says Gran, business-like. “Let’s get you back upstairs. And don’t even think about crying, because that uses energy you’re going to need. Are you ready?”

  I take a steadying breath, nod.

  “Good. Now, focus. Harness your feelings and move.”

  I nod. Focus. I harness my emotions, convert them to anger, and look up. I will move.

  “There.” She smiles. “You didn’t need me at all.”

  Thank goodness. We’re both near the ceiling. Back where we belong.

  # # #

  As the afternoon hours tick by, my room gradually fills. Nate arrives. Then Mum and Tess join him. They clearly enjoy each other’s company, and I love the way they fill my room with warmth and shared laughter.

  All of which drains away when Geoff appears on his way home from work.

  “Sorry I’m late, Kathy.” He bulldozes into the room, skids on a playing card, checks. “Whoa. What the—?”

  He looks down at the mess of cards, with Tess and Nate sitting in their centre. He frowns. “Oh. Nate. What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting Faith.” Na
te waits a beat. His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “If that’s okay with you.”

  Geoff rubs at the back of his neck. “Sure, sure. Sorry. That came out all wrong. It’s been a long day.”

  Nate accepts the apology with a slight inclination of his chin. He whispers something in Tess’s ear, kisses her and stands.

  A muscle works in Geoff’s jaw. “Tess, come on kid, that mess is ridiculous.”

  He looks at the cards, strewn everywhere. I follow his gaze and suddenly I’m seeing it as he does: untidiness. My fingers itch to clean it all away.

  “It’s not a mess,” says Tess. “It’s a game.”

  “Well, this room’s too small for it. Game’s over. Pack it up.” With his toe he nudges the culprit card her way. “I could’ve broken my leg.”

  She reaches for the card, muttering under her breath.

  “Pardon?” Geoff’s voice holds a warning tone.

  “Nothing.” Tess’s head stays studiously down. She begins gathering up the remaining cards.

  “What did you say?” he persists.

  Jeeze, pick your battles, pal.

  She throws him a killer glare. “I said I wish you had.” She shouts the last word.

  “Tess!” admonishes Mum.

  Geoff’s face darkens. “I’ve just about had enough of you, young lady.”

  Tess’s face crumples. She runs over to the bed and buries her face in the blanket. Her hands clutch at the bedding, her wee body shuddering with silent sobs.

  “Don’t cry, darling,” I say, knowing full well my words aren’t enough. She needs hugs.

  I want to shake them all. She’s only a kid, for heaven’s sake. Where’s their compassion?

  Mum looks from Tess to Geoff and back again. She bites her lip. Piggy-in-the-middle syndrome paralyses her. Nate suffers no such paralysis. He folds his arms and stares Geoff down, frowning in silent reprimand, waiting for him to step in and comfort Tess.

  Geoff stays stubbornly still. Jerk.

  Nate’s lip curls. He shakes his head, his eyes full of disgust. Two long strides and he’s at Tess’s side.

  “Hey, Tessabelle,” he says, his tone surprisingly gentle, “come here.”

  She turns into his arms, sobbing openly now. Geoff mutters to himself and turns his attention to his phone.

  Nate hugs Tess close, letting her cry.

  “Thank you, Nate,” I whisper.

  Eventually, calmer, Tess surreptitiously wipes her nose on the hem of his white tee.

  “Mmm,” says Nate. “Lovely.”

  Tess gives a hiccupy half-laugh-half-sob.

  “Feeling better?”

  She nods against his belly but doesn’t let go.

  “Hey, Squirt, what you said to your dad . . .” Nate begins, and her body stills like a deer sniffing danger. “It wasn’t very nice. And you didn’t mean it, did you?”

  She says nothing but every fibre of her being is tuned in to his words. I hope he can find the right ones.

  “You’re sad. I get that. We’re all feeling sad just now. But sometimes when we’re sad we get angry and say things we don’t mean. That’s okay, too, as long as we know when to say sorry. Let’s try not to be mean to each other, eh?”

  A hesitation. Finally she nods against his belly.

  “Because we don’t want to make each other feel sadder than we already do, do we?”

  Still hiding against him, she shakes her head.

  “Good girl.” Then, as her sniffle becomes a yawn, “Y’know what? A good night’s sleep and you’ll feel heaps better.”

  Wow. I’m impressed.

  “He did that perfectly,” I whisper to Gran. “He’s good.”

  She nods, her eyes still on the scene below.

  Geoff checks his watch.

  “Actually . . .” He clears his throat. “Er, Kathy, any chance you could have Tess for the night? I’ve got to go back into work.”

  He’s got to go into work now? Tonight? With his wife in a coma and his kid falling apart? What does he do? Run the bloody country?

  Mum blinks, frowns. “Oh. Um . . . well, of course. If you really must.”

  “Thanks, Kathy. Right. Well. Nice to see you, Nate. Thanks for popping in.”

  He squats down in front of Tess. “Sleep well, Pumpkin,” he says, ruffling her hair.

  She nods, eyes downcast.

  He chucks her chin. “Hey, I love you.”

  Their eyes meet, hers full of tears, his full of apology, and he pulls her in for a brief hug.

  “See you tomorrow.” He kisses her head.

  And then he’s gone. Just like that. Fatherly duties attended to—to his own satisfaction, at least—and he’s off.

  I watch my daughter with concern. “Tess, are you okay?”

  She nods, but as she sits there, eyes downcast, hugging her knees she doesn’t look remotely okay.

  My heart constricts. My wee girl. My poor wee girl. She hasn’t lost one parent; she’s lost both. One of them is lying in a coma, useless in every sense of the word, and the other is hiding in his work, equally useless.

  Chapter Ten

  Dusk fills the room, and in the half-light the monitor’s heart flashes ever brighter, reassuring yet disquieting.

  Reassuring because it shows I’m still alive. Disquieting because it’s like a clock, ticking away the seconds of my life. Whenever I stop and watch that electronic heart counting down to my death, panic flutters in my gut, a caged bird desperate for release.

  I tear my eyes away. If I look at the heart I panic, and if I panic the heart races, and if the heart races I panic, and that spiral can and will kill me. So—don’t look at the heart.

  I look at Nate instead. He’s just pulled a chair up to the bed.

  “Hey, Faith,” he says. “It’s just you and me, now. Kathy’s taken Tess home for the night.”

  He shakes his head. “She’s something else, that girl of yours. Comes out with the darnedest things. This morning she told me people were stupid. I asked her why she thought that, and she said, ‘They keep being nasty to each other instead of nice.’ Never a truer word and all that, but from a six-year-old? How can she know that already?”

  I frown. How can she know that? Scenario after worrying scenario confront me. She’s being bullied at school. She’s heard us arguing. She’s witnessed street thuggery. She’s reacting to Geoff’s offhandedness. She’s seen an R-rated movie. She’s—

  Stop. It could be anything, or nothing. I force my breathing to calm. Tess is fine. She’s perceptive, that’s all.

  “Ma would say Tess is an old soul.” Nate lets out a disparaging snort. “Whatever. She’s a clever kid. Takes after her mum.”

  He stares into space. Shoves his hands in his jacket pockets.

  “Even so,” he says, “some of the things she says are downright spooky. They’re just so ‘you’ I can’t believe it.”

  He chats on, seemingly unfazed by the one-sidedness of the conversation.

  Gran appears beside me, glamorous in a slinky black number, her now-blonde locks caught in a side bun.

  I raise an eyebrow at her. “Do you have a hot date or something?”

  “No. Looks like you do, though.”

  “Hardly.”

  Gran watches Nate for a moment. “He’s nice, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah.” A sigh escapes. “Really nice. He has a great bond with Tess.”

  “He’s handsome, too.”

  I slant her a sidelong glance. Gran’s looking the picture of innocence as she watches him . . . but I know her well.

  “You think?” I study Nate’s face. “Looks a bit rough around the edges.”

  “Rough edges, soft heart.”

  More like rough edges, hot body—but I’m not about to tell Gran that. Besides, I’m married.

  Though why I married my husband instead of this rough-edged, soft-hearted guy is anybody’s guess. We were in love. What drove us apart? And yet—he’s still in my life, close enough to be here for me, close enough to
have strong bonds with my mother and daughter.

  What’s going to happen when I wake up? Will I go home with my husband, back to the life I chose? Or will I make a new choice?

  My throat closes over. Maybe neither. Maybe I won’t wake up.

  A band of tightness clamps around my chest. I shake my head—don’t think like that. But the thought stays, a seething, multi-limbed monster invading my mind.

  “Faith . . .” Gran shoots me a warning look.

  The monster taunts me with Gran’s words. Seven days. It’s too big an ask . . .

  Her composure slips and I can tell she’s read my thought. “You heard me say that?”

  “Yes. Want to tell me about my time limit?”

  She blinks, breaks eye contact, coughs self-consciously. “I’d better go.”

  “Of course you had.” My words are laced with sarcasm.

  “Don’t, darling. I . . . look.” She flaps an agitated hand. “I’m sorry. I had no idea you heard. Blast and drat,” she adds under her breath. “Don’t read too much into the seven days thing, Faith. It was a throwaway comment.”

  Yeah, right. About as throwaway as ‘pull the plug’.

  “I have to dash.” Gran casts a quick glance over her shoulder. Smooths her black dress with jerky movements. “I need to come up with a feasible explanation for my seven days slip or the Death Council will be all over me like maggots.”

  And before I have time to quiz her further on slips and explanations and maggots and the like she barks, “Forget that. Faith, stop all this thinking and start doing. Now. Get cracking.”

  And then she’s gone.

  Gran’s worried; I can tell. She’s really worried. This is serious.

  I take a deep breath, square my shoulders against the bitterness in my mouth and the horror in my thoughts. It’s time to face facts. I may not wake up.

  My blood chills. This time next week I could be dead. I’m struggling to get my head around the whole concept, let alone think of it in terms of myself.