If Only I Could Tell You
Page 29
Behind her, Jess heard someone sniff. She reached out, took Mia’s hand, squeezed gently. There were no words, Jess knew that. This was the moment language failed you.
Another breath rasped inside her mum’s chest, came wheezing out through the small parting of her lips: sharp and sour, like fruit left to ripen too long in a bowl.
Jess glanced across the bed to where Lily and Phoebe were sitting on the far side, Lily’s face pale and watchful as though she didn’t dare blink for fear of missing the moment they all knew to be imminent.
She felt a hand rest on the back of her neck, felt newly familiar fingers stroke gently along her nape, turned, and met Ben’s eyes just long enough to see the concern and affection in his expression.
A short, jagged breath made its way into her mum’s lungs. It wouldn’t be long. Jess knew that without needing to be told. And the knowledge caused a wave of panic that had been ebbing and flowing throughout the night to rise into her throat with a need to mark the moment, to make this last sliver of time count for something.
She watched Mia kneel beside her, watched her daughter smooth her fingers across the papery skin of Audrey’s forehead. Glancing sideways, she saw a lone tear trickle down Phoebe’s cheek.
Jess took her mum’s hand, stroked the back of it with the pad of her thumb, wanting her mum to know she was there, that they were all there. Leaning forward she whispered in her mum’s ear, words of tenderness and gratitude that had, for so many years, remained unspoken: a torrent of love she hoped might seep into her mum’s consciousness, to be heard and understood before it was too late.
Jess turned her head, caught Lily’s eye, and nodded.
Chapter 68
Lily
Lily unscrewed the lid, inserted the syringe, and drew up the medicine inside. Slowly, carefully, one drop at a time, she dripped the liquid morphine onto her mum’s tongue.
Her mum’s lips closed, as if in slow motion, and then gradually opened again, the sound of her tongue peeling from the dry roof of her mouth echoing around the room.
Lily waited for the next breath to come but her mum lay there, inert, her jaw slack, lips parted, body unmoving.
And just at the point Lily thought the moment had arrived, her mum took in another short, jarring breath, her chest rising and holding on to the air as if her body knew how very precious every last atom was.
She brought her face close to her mum’s, breathed in the sharp acetone odor on her breath as she kissed her forehead, knew from the last time, twenty-eight years ago, what that smell meant.
Lily rested her cheek against the back of her mum’s hand, brought her lips to her mum’s arid skin—skin she had kissed a thousand times before yet never with the significance with which she kissed it now—and felt the first of her tears begin to fall.
As another breath rattled in and out, Lily noticed the tiniest movement in her mum’s mouth: a fractional upending of her lips.
A smile.
Her mum was smiling. Infinitesimal and yet, to Lily, momentous.
Chapter 69
Audrey
There is something bitter on her tongue. Something metallic and bitter as though her mouth is coated in mercury. It is a familiar taste but only recently so.
She manages to close her lips although her bottom jaw feels heavy and her head wants to sink back onto the pillow. But there is something hard underneath her skull. Something is holding her head at a distance higher than the pillow, causing her neck muscles to strain against the effort.
A hand. That’s what it is. A hand.
She feels her tongue make contact with the roof of her mouth. It seems to stick there, spreading the strange flavor across her palate. For a moment she does not think she will be able to pull her tongue free but slowly, there it comes, and with it a loud sticking noise that seems to echo in her ears.
She breathes in and hears something rattle at the back of her throat. It is a noise she knows although she cannot place it. But she does not like it and wishes she was not hearing it. It is a noise that causes images to flash behind her closed eyes. Images of a darkened room, a small figure under a duvet, tiny blue hummingbirds, and waiting: waiting for something she knows will happen but wishes with all her heart would not. It is an image that squeezes something deep inside her yet she does not know whether the feeling belongs to the past or the present.
Somebody is whispering into her ear. Their breath is soft, moist, reassuring, even though the words are slippery, unable to form shapes she recognizes. But it is a voice that warms the inside of her head, filling it with something familiar, something she wants more of even though she is not sure exactly what it is.
She breathes out and there is a sense of release in letting the air go.
She feels something warm being smoothed across her forehead, soft as a feather, brushing across her skin. And then a similar sensation on the back of her hand. She wonders if time has reversed, if she is a little girl again, back in the white wooden bed in the flat above the shop, recovering from scarlet fever, her mother keeping vigil by her side, feeding her sips of sugary drinks, singing her songs, stroking her hair.
She is filled, suddenly, with a sense that there is something she ought to do—something she needs to do—but hard as she tries, she cannot remember what it is. It is somewhere just out of reach, beyond her grasp, and yet she is sure it is there. And just as she is about to give up looking for it, she feels a trickle of air pass slowly through her lips, feels it suck the moisture out of her mouth on its way down her windpipe, feels her chest expand to make room for it, and there is a sense of relief that her body has found the answer.
Emerging out of the darkness, a scene filters into view behind her closed eyes.
It is a meadow, grasses high, variegated flowers in bloom. A cloudless sky, sun shining brightly, bathing the air in a hazy yellow hue. And beneath the blue sky and the burnished sun, in the middle of the meadow, four girls are dancing.
Lily, Jess, Mia, Phoebe. All of them children, all of them dancing, holding hands in a circle, daisy chains in their hair like woodland nymphs, their movements illuminated by an ethereal glow.
They are happy. They are all safe and they are all happy. She can see it in their smiles, in their laughter, in the clutching of their hands and the motion of their limbs.
And there, standing to one side of the meadow, is Zoe. Zoe is watching them dance and she, too, is smiling. All of her girls are smiling.
She feels something soft against her cheek, something soft and smooth and warm, and there is comfort in it, a comfort that goes beyond words. And the warmth seeps through her cheek and down her neck, across her shoulders, into her chest, weaving itself through her ribs until her whole body is infused with it.
Behind her closed eyes, she turns her head to follow the movement of her dancing girls, but the glare of the sun bathes the scene in a light too bright for her to penetrate. Too light, too bright for her to see her girls anymore.
She watches them disappear and whispers a silent goodbye.
Acknowledgments
Second novels are notoriously tricky beasts, and I owe thanks to an army of people who have encouraged and supported me over the past few years.
Thanks to my agent, Sheila Crowley, who always reassured me that she would stick by me until I found the book I was meant to write: we got there in the end! Thanks to all at Curtis Brown, particularly Abbie Greaves and Luke Speed.
Eternal thanks to my editor, Harriet Bourton, for believing in me and this book. You really are the very best of editors and it’s no exaggeration to say that your creative input has been transformative. If this were an Oscar speech, I would say I was sharing the award with you.
To all at Orion who have been such passionate champions, guardians, and promoters of this novel: Poppy Stimpson in publicity and Katie Moss in marketing for their tireless creativity and boundless enthusiasm; Bethan Jones for guiding the book (and me) through the process; Susan Howe, Jessica Purdue, and Krystyna Ku
jawinska in the rights team for a fantastic lineup of foreign deals; Jen Wilson, Rachael Hum, and the whole sales team; Maggy Park, Dominic Smith, and, the fantastic sales reps; Paul Stark and Amber Bates in audio; Ruth Sharvell in production; Charlotte Abrams-Simpson for the gorgeous cover; and the Orion bigwigs, Katie Espiner and Sarah Benton, for allowing me to be published by the best team in the business.
Enormous thanks to my American publisher, HarperCollins, for bringing the book to a US audience with such enthusiasm and passion, especially to Tessa Woodward and Elle Keck in editorial, Molly Waxman in marketing, Jessica Lyons in publicity, and Rachel Meyers in production editorial.
So many people in publishing and journalism have become friends over the past few years (and have often provided me with gainful employment). Thanks to Georgina Moore, Alison Barrow, Charlotte Heathcote, Lisa O’Kelly, Nina Pottell, and Sara-Jade Virtue: the profession is so much better for having you all in it. Sincere thanks, too, to Mari Evans for invaluable advice and encouragement when I was very much in need of it.
To the fellow writers whom I now have the privilege of calling friends: thanks to Amanda Jennings, Maggie O’Farrell, and Rachel Joyce.
Particular thanks to my wonderful friend and fellow novelist Lucy Atkins for being the person with whom I first discussed this novel and who helped shape it in so many crucial ways, not to mention being my first reader, and such an incisive one at that. Huge thanks, too, to Emilya Hall for invaluable notes on an early draft.
For both friendship and patience with my endless medical inquiries, thanks to Joanna Cannon and Adam Kay. Suffice it to say, any medical mistakes are mine.
To my brother and sister-in-law, Matthew and Sally Bush, for their early readings and reassurance that this book was “much better than your last.”
Thanks to my step-dad, Jerry Bowler: for all the days I have taken over your study, not to mention your unwavering belief that this book will be a success.
To my mum: thank you for your unstinting love, support, and encouragement; for your help with childcare when I’ve been on a deadline; for reading this novel so many times and doing such a great proofread; and for always making it clear that you would be proud of me whatever I did.
To my daughter, Aurelia, who pointed out that she can write a book in two days so why does it take Mummy two years? Thank you for your unbridled enthusiasm every time a new author endorsement came in, for your very honest feedback about various book jackets, and for taking so much pleasure in telling your friends that your mummy is a writer. Keep writing, angel, and I look forward to coming to your book launch one day.
And finally, to my husband, Adam. Being married to a writer is not easy, I know. The wild swings from optimism to despair (often on an hourly basis) would test the most patient of individuals. Luckily, you are the most patient of individuals, not to mention the most loving, supportive, and kind. You are a partner in the truest sense and I could not be more grateful for you. Thank you, with all my love.
About the Author
HANNAH BECKERMAN worked as a television producer and commissioning editor for twelve years before becoming a full-time author, journalist, and broadcaster. She is a features writer and reviewer for The Observer, The Guardian, and the FT Magazine, appears regularly as a book critic on BBC Radio 2, and chairs literary events across the UK. Hannah lives in London with her husband and daughter.
You can connect with Hannah online:
hannahbeckerman.com
Twitter: @hannahbeckerman
Facebook: hannahbeckermanauthor
Instagram: hannahbeckermanauthor
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
IF ONLY I COULD TELL YOU. Copyright © 2019 by Hannah Beckerman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Cover design by Charlotte Abrams Simpson/Orion Books
Cover image © Zamurovic
Photography/Shutterstock
Author photo by Adam Jackson
Originally published as If Only I Could Tell You in Great Britain in 2019 by Orion Fiction, an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group LTD.
FIRST U.S. EDITION
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-289055-9
Version 08092019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-289054-2
ISBN: 978-0-06-295218-9 (hardcover library edition)
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario, M5H 4E3
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida
Uttar Pradesh 201 301
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com