The Trouble With Dying Page 9

  Mum wrings her hands, looks wretched. “I don’t know, Nathan. Perhaps.”

  This is getting out of hand. If even my mother and childhood buddy believe it, it’s a done deal. Regardless of whether I live or die I’ll be branded suicidal, everyone will refer to me as ‘that crazy woman’, and my daughter will carry my shame forever.

  My insides shrivel. I can’t let that happen to Tess.

  Desperation gives me the focus I need. I whip down to Nate’s side.

  “It’s not true,” I say, so close to his ear I’m almost in it.

  “Maybe,” continues Mum, “she really did think she had nothing left to live for.”

  “No,” I say, louder. It’s not true. It can’t be. Look at my lovely girl, for starters.

  He frowns. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe nothing.” What does a woman have to do around here to be heard? I shove myself between him and the window, misjudge the available space and end up outside.

  My stomach lurches. Don’t look down, don’t look down.

  I look down and feel instantly sick. Three storeys is a long way to fall. I should know.

  Stop it. I won’t fall. I’m floating. The floor is irrelevant. The ground is irrelevant. Being heard by Nate—that is the only thing here that’s relevant.

  I face Nate and, thrusting my head back through the glass, shout in his face. “Hoi! Listen to me! I didn’t try to kill myself!”

  He backs off a few centimetres, and hope thrills up my spine. Did he hear?

  Nate glances at the bed. “What the hell were you playing at, Faith?” he mutters.

  He’s not listening, dammit. He’s not hearing a word I say.

  “I didn’t do this.” I close the space between us and speak to him at point blank range. “I’m not suicidal. I’m not!”

  Mum glances sharply at the monitor as it starts to beep.

  Crap. All right, all right, calming down. Deep breathing. Calm, calm.

  “Well done,” says Gran, and I want to slap the stupid wart off her nose. She’s so freaking calm about every-freaking-thing, and it’s driving me freaking nuts.

  I hate her.

  Okay, that’s a lie. I love her. A lot. Wart and all. I’m grateful she’s here.

  But I’d be more grateful if she’d just come down and talk to these two, let them know I definitely wasn’t suicidal, and maybe even tell the detectives.

  I send her a hopeful glance.

  She shakes her head, mouths a silent, “No.”

  Blast. Somehow, some way, I have to get through to them. How, though?

  Gran raises her brows and waits.

  I scowl at her, irritated by her presence and irritated by her rule-abidance and irritated by my inability to solve this.

  “Communication is about far more than talking,” she says, and watches me expectantly.

  What is this? Riddle o’clock?

  I fester, but her words repeat in my head until, finally, the fog lifts from my brain. That’s it: they can’t hear me, so I’ll make them feel me.

  Like the poker pro she is, Gran’s expression doesn’t change.

  Then she winks.

  I blink. Did I just see that? I watch her a second longer, and her left eyebrow twitches up momentarily.

  It’s all the confirmation I need. My mind races. So does my heart. This could actually work. Who to try it on? My gaze flits between Mum and Nate, but the answer’s already obvious. If Nate’s own mother feels me there’s a strong possibility Nate will, too. I just wish I’d thought of it earlier.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I’m going to pass through his body.

  The decision leaves me dry-mouthed. I don’t really fancy jiggling my insides around any more than I have to. But there’s no other way, so I hold my breath, close my eyes, and move on through.

  It obviously affects me more than it does him: I’m left feeling deliciously naughty, as if I’ve seduced him while he slept, but he doesn’t so much as even blink.

  “Oh, come on,” I say, then hold my breath. Did he just shiver?

  As I watch, he does it again. A full-body, someone-just-walked-over-my-grave shudder.

  “Yes,” I breathe. “You felt it.”

  Brimming with excitement, I pass through his body again.

  He frowns, and my hope surges. He’s feeling me—or feeling something.

  Now what? How can I use this?

  My excitement deflates like a pin-pricked balloon. I can’t. Maybe if he knew I was here . . . but he doesn’t. So I’m back to square one.

  If only I had more time. I could learn to move objects . . . like a pen. Then I’d just write him a letter.

  But I don’t have more time. I’m down to only five days. Five. Short. Days. What the hell am I going to do?

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Sorry to intrude.”

  Mum, Nate and I swing around as a policeman steps into the room. It’s the same one who interviewed Geoff. Today, though, he seems uncomfortable—as if his suit doesn’t fit, though it looks just fine. His discomfort makes me uneasy.

  Nate and Mum share a loaded glance. Mum sighs then stands.

  “Come in,” she says, her voice more resigned than welcoming.

  “Faith’s sleeping,” she adds, unnecessarily.

  His eyes slide over Faith-in-the-bed then return to Mum.

  “Mrs Osbourne?” He refers to his notes, though I doubt he needs to. “Mrs Kathy Osbourne?”

  “Miss,” corrects Mum. “But call me Kathy. And this—” she includes Nate with a sweep of her hand “—is Nathan Sutherland.”

  Nate stands and shakes the officer’s hand.

  The officer turns to Mum, flashes his badge. “Miss—Kathy, there’s been an update. Could I have a few minutes of your time?”

  “Of course. Here? Or would you prefer somewhere more . . . formal?”

  “No, no, here will be fine.”

  “Maybe you should talk in another room,” says Nate, with a significant glance at Faith-in-the-bed.

  “Good idea.” The policeman holds the door for Mum.

  Nate follows. “I’ll go down to the lounge and check on Tess.”

  Mum mouths a ‘thank you’ to him then accompanies the policeman to a nearby alcove.

  “Kathy,” says the policeman, “Faith’s bloods have—” The door clicks shut, smothering the rest.

  I turn away, frustrated, then laugh. What am I thinking? They can’t see me. I can snoop as much as I like.

  I slip into the corridor and catch the end of the officer’s sentence.

  “—alcohol level.”

  Mum blinks, as if he’s not quite in focus. “I . . . see.”

  “Would you say your daughter is a heavy drinker?”

  She bristles. “Absolutely not.”

  “Hmm. I see.”

  For a moment the officer gazes beyond her, beyond me, down the corridor. “She was wearing an evening dress when she fell. Blue. Sequined.” His focus snaps back to Mum. “Strange, don’t you think, that she’d be wearing that in the middle of the day?”

  Mum frowns. “Yes. Very.”

  She waits, but he offers nothing further.

  She shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. “Detective, are you really here to give me an update?”

  He makes a show of studying whatever secrets his notebook holds.

  “My apologies, Miss Osbourne.”

  “Kathy.”

  He clears his throat. “Yes. Kathy. Sorry. Well, there are—” he chooses his words carefully “—indications your daughter may have attempted suicide.”

  He pauses, apparently giving Mum time to take in his words.

  It’s time she doesn’t need.

  “Faith would never consider suicide,” she says, and although she wasn’t so sure earlier her voice now rings with conviction. Thank God. Maybe voicing her worst fears to Nate was all she needed; now she can be strong.

  “Hmm. I understand she suffered from mood . . . fluctuations.” He watches Mum’s fac
e, pencil poised.

  Mum’s back straightens. “Who told you that?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “I see.” Mum fixes him a gaze every bit as assessing as his own. “Detective, my daughter has a young child, a part-time job, and a husband who’s forever working late.” Her chin lifts. “Faith wouldn’t be human if she didn’t have the odd down day.”

  “You’re clearly very close to your daughter, Kathy.”

  A shutter comes down over Mum’s eyes. She drops her gaze to her hands, clasped together as if in prayer. When she meets the officer’s eyes again her expression is drawn.

  “Faith’s father left many years ago. We’ve looked after each other through some very difficult times. So, yes, we’re close.”

  “And of course,” says the officer impassively, “you’d hate to think you missed something this significant in your daughter.”

  Mum’s eyes flash. I feel my own anger rising. Insensitive prick.

  He scribbles in his notebook, and suddenly Nate is at Mum’s side, a supportive hand on her arm. I’m impressed. Superman couldn’t have timed it better.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks, and Mum turns to him, all but sagging against his chest.

  The detective watches on with lizard-like intensity. He clears his throat. “Mr Sutherland.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me, what’s your relationship to Faith?”

  Nate’s eyes flicker, so slightly I might have imagined it. “Friend.”

  “Ah.”

  It’s a loaded ‘ah’, and the silence that follows is electric.

  “You know Faith well, then?”

  Nate gives a curt nod, one that both answers his question and tells him to back off.

  The officer isn’t fazed. “Would you say she’s been under a lot of stress recently?”

  “Stress? What kind of stress?”

  “I don’t know, sir. That’s what I’m trying to establish. Faith’s demeanour, her general—”

  “You want to know if she was suicidal,” interrupts Nate. “No. Not now, not ever. She wasn’t remotely suicidal. Wouldn’t you agree, Kathy?”

  He looks to Mum, who nods, then back at the officer. “There you go. End of story. I take it someone’s been telling you otherwise, but I suggest you—”

  The officer clears his throat. “Yes, well, thank you for your . . . perspective, Mr Sutherland.”

  He jots something else in his notebook.

  We hear Tess before we see her, bounding our way with coltish enthusiasm. She comes to a swinging stop around Nate’s legs. “Hi!”

  Then, seeing the detective, she falters.

  He smiles down at her. “Hello. What’s your name?”

  “Tess.” She bites her lip. “Are you a policeman?”

  “Yes.” He attempts a smile but it looks awkward on his face. “I’ve come to say hello.”

  Her hand fumbles for her grandmother’s. “Are you taking someone to jail?”

  “No.” He winks. “I haven’t seen any baddies today. Have you?”

  She haltingly shakes her head, sticking close to Mum.

  “I’m pleased about that. Is that your mother in there?”

  She nods.

  “I guess you’re missing her, are you?”

  Another nod. Her eyes cloud over.

  Nate steps in front of Tess, glaring at the officer.

  Tess looks up at me, and I make a silly face. She smiles. Her gloom disappears.

  The officer steps to one side, bringing Tess back into his line of vision. “Tess, did Mummy feel sad before her accident?”

  “No, but she’s sad now.”

  “She’s not sad, dear,” says Mum. “She’s just sleeping until she gets better.”

  “Yes, but she’s talking, too, and she’s told me nobody’s listening and that’s making her real sad.”

  The officer glances at Nate, who shoots him a frosty, what-did-you-expect look.

  “Well,” says the officer, “I’ll listen out for her, okay?”

  Tess nods. I snort. She giggles, casting a surreptitious look my way.

  The officer writes something else in his all-important little book and—

  Hang on, that’s his notebook. Full of his notes. I berate myself for the idiot I am. What he says is irrelevant: it’s what he thinks that’s important. All this time I should have been reading what he thinks, not listening to what he says.

  I lean over his shoulder and, feeling like a dirty PI, start skim-reading.

  . . . query marriage stability? Good point. I’d like to know more, myself.

  . . . mother defensive re mental stability . . . suicidal? My eyes skate past, then double back. There it is, in black and white.

  Even though I expected it, I’m still dismayed to see the word.

  Framed by a cute little cloud, written in letters spidery and thin, the word ‘suicidal’ seems so innocuous. But the very fact he wrote it . . .

  Indignation burns in my throat. As if he knows the first thing about me. Good grief. I don’t know the first thing about me, but I know I’m not a nutcase.

  “I did not try to ki—”

  Tess looks up at me and the word catches in my throat. I need to be more careful.

  The policeman snaps his notebook shut, gives Mum a perfunctory smile. “Well, Kathy, that’s all for now. Thank you. And thanks to you too, Mr Sutherland. You’ve both been a great help. This must be a difficult time. My sympathies.”

  “And?” says Nate. “The update?”

  “They think it’s—” Mum pauses, looks at Tess, then mouths the last word “—suicide.”

  “We haven’t ruled out an accident,” clarifies the policeman, “but at this stage it’s looking . . . less likely.”

  In the wake of his departure we return to my room and linger in silence, all of us deep in our own dark thoughts. Even Tess is subdued.

  Eventually Nate pushes himself upright from the wall. “Something’s not ringing true here. I think it’s time I checked out the apartment for myself.”

  He grabs his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. “Is the spare key still there?”

  “I don’t know. Here.” Mum rifles through her bag and pulls out a key. “Use mine.”

  “Thanks.” He heads for the door.

  “Oh, and Nathan?”

  He turns.

  “Be careful,” she says. “I know you know what you’re doing, and I know you’ll be careful, but . . . well. Be even more careful. The police won’t take kindly to you stepping on toes.”

  His mouth quirks up at one corner. “They never do.”

  # # #

  The click-clack approach of stilettos heralds another visit from Cynthia—my best friend, though I’ve yet to remember our closeness. And her laugh, halfway between a giggle and a bray, tells me she’s not alone.

  That silly-filly laugh could get annoying.

  “Silly filly,” murmurs Gran, now decked out in a red flapper dress. “How apt.”

  I duck my head into the corridor and, sure enough, Geoff is at her side.

  “Silly filly,” repeats Tess.

  I laser Gran with a horrified, watch-your-mouth-in-front-of-the-child look.

  Tess glances up at just that moment, sees our expressions—my horror, Gran’s amusement—and goes for gold.

  “You are a silly filly,” she chants, as Geoff and Cynthia enter the room. “Sil-ly bil-ly sil-ly fil-ly.”

  I cringe, waiting for his reprimand, but it doesn’t come.

  “Afternoon, cheeky girl,” he says, ruffling her hair, then hands her some coins. “Here, go grab yourself a treat. Remember how the food dispenser works?”

  She nods.

  “Good. Off you go, then. I’m pretty sure I saw another little girl there when we came past. If you’re quick you might make a new friend.”

  Tess’s eyes light up.

  “Cool!” She leaps to her feet and hugs Geoff tight. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  Gosh. Something’s put hi
m in a good mood. It almost makes him seem like reasonable husband material.

  Tess skips with delight.

  “Hi, Auntie Cynth,” she says on her way out, and her throwaway greeting blindsides me.

  Cynthia has ‘auntie’ status?

  Head to one side, I watch her. I suppose it makes sense. She’s my best friend, so she’s like an auntie to my daughter. But, somehow—I’m not sure why—her auntie-ness doesn’t sit well with me.

  Tess seems fine around her, so what’s my problem?

  Friday night. Standing room only, music pounding, drinks flowing. Cynthia grinning at me, raising her glass. Me raising mine in return.

  “Hot dude, nine o’clock,” she yells over the music.

  Both of us checking him out. Grinning at each other, then linking arms and heading his way.

  As quick as it came, the memory is gone, replaced with another.

  Cynthia, across the room. Our eyes meeting. Her expression cooling rapidly.

  My stomach dropping, the way it does when your mum’s about to tell you off. Smiling at her anyway and waving her over. Cynthia turning and walking the other way.

  Blood rushing in my ears. What the—? We’re best friends. Why the snub?

  Mum stands and her movement jerks me back to the present.

  She greets Geoff and Cynthia with a half-smile. “Here, have a seat.”

  “No, no, don’t get up.” Geoff stops at the end of the bed, legs astride, one hand pocketed as he picks up the medical chart and scans it.

  I watch him, unaccountably irritated. “Look at him. Since when does he have a medical degree?”

  “Since never.” Gran sniffs, clearly as impressed as me. “Looks the part, I suppose.”

  “Cynthia,” says Mum, her tone pleasant albeit distant. “Come and sit with Faith.” She gestures at the chair she’s vacated. “I’m sure she’d be delighted you’ve finally had a chance to visit.”

  I blink. Is it just me or was that comment a little on the barbed side?

  Cynthia smiles but to me it seems forced. “I popped in yesterday.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” says Mum. “I’m sure you’ve been very busy.”

  Cynthia clears her throat and sits self-consciously next to Faith-in-the-bed. Her hand hovers hesitantly over the blankets before withdrawing to the safety of her lap.