The Lives We Touch

by Eva Woods

  Who was Jack? She didn’t know. But other information was flooding back. She was remembering. ‘This is my flat!’ she said out loud.

  ‘This is where you live?’ said Melissa, from somewhere behind her.

  Rosie jumped. ‘You’re here too?’

  ‘Think of me as like your spirit guide.’ Melissa was nosing among her DVD collection. ‘Hey, I know all these! Don’t you watch any recent TV shows? Friends … ah, I love Friends. I was gutted I died before it ended, I never got to find out if Ross and Rachel made it.’

  ‘Course they did. It’s a show about happy endings. Not like real life.’

  The room was as Rosie remembered, but shadowy somehow. A memory of the thing and not the thing. Melissa was looking at everything, opening drawers in the kitchen, peering under the coffee table, lifting up the colourful sofa cushions. There wasn’t much to look at, actually. One room, a bed pushed into the corner, a two-seater sofa in front of a small cheap TV, a strip of kitchen against the wall. A door off to the side that Rosie knew was her bathroom, so small she was eternally afraid she’d slip and get wedged in there and die, as had happened in one news story she’d read (see, another memory!). Melissa heaved a sigh. ‘I guess I thought it would be … bigger. You know, in St Elmo’s Fire, Demi Moore has that huge place.’

  ‘Because she was a bond trader in the eighties!’

  ‘And Monica and Rachel have a nice place in New York.’

  ‘Rent control,’ Rosie snapped. ‘Also, fiction. Life’s not like we thought it would be in the nineties, Melissa. Property costs a fortune and wages haven’t gone up at all.’

  ‘Oh. So no huge pink flats?’

  ‘Not unless you’re on coke and also working maybe as a call girl on the side.’

  ‘Like in Pretty Woman?’ Melissa’s eyes widened. ‘So romantic, that film.’

  ‘Yes, well, wait till you discover feminism and it’s ruined for you for ever. Turns out, paying her for sex: not that romantic after all.’ Too late, she remembered Melissa would never discover anything, because she was dead. And yet here she was, talking to Rosie. It made no sense.

  Melissa kicked the side of the sofa, releasing a cloud of dust. She coughed. ‘I get what you’re saying about houses being expensive, Rosie, and I’m fourteen so I don’t really notice dirt, but isn’t this kind of … messy?’

  Rosie looked around. The ghostly teen was right. It was a total tip. Why was she living like this? There were dirty dishes stacked all round the sink, and what looked like biscuit crumbs ground into the cheap velveteen sofa. Over the radiator, her underwear was drying, but it wasn’t the fabulous lace and silk lingerie she’d imagined she’d have as a grown-up; it was washed out and holey and grey. Her heart sank. I found my life again, but it sucks.

  Melissa was saying, ‘I mean, where’re your Magic Eye pictures? Your troll doll collection? There’s not even a lava lamp. Disappointing.’

  ‘Shhh.’ Rosie could hear something. Footsteps, stomping up the stairs, and loud voices. ‘Someone’s coming!’ She panicked. How could she explain being here, in her own flat, but with a teenage ghost who still thought lava lamps were the height of cool?

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Melissa, calmly rummaging through a makeup bag. ‘We’re not really here. This is just a memory.’

  As soon as she said that, Rosie understood. Of course it was a memory. It had taken place, as the dial suggested, a week ago.

  The door burst open and into the shabby flat came – herself. Rosie stared, from her vantage point huddled against the radiator. She, her memory self, was wearing jeans with big rips in the knees, and Rosie heard a voice in her head: Can’t you buy clothes that don’t have holes in them? And she knew it was something her mother had said to her. No coat, though it was, as Rosie now knew, October. She was carrying a thin plastic bag with what looked like a Pot Noodle in it, and talking to someone behind her. ‘Honestly, I’m fine. I just don’t want to go out.’

  She’d been followed in by a very skinny man in tight jeans and a T-shirt. His arms were covered in tattoos and his voice was whiny. ‘But babe, you’ve not been out in, like, weeks, except, like, to the corner shop.’ Was this Luke, the name she’d said in the ambulance? Surely not.

  Real-life Rosie flopped onto the sofa, releasing more dust. ‘I’m fine, Leo. I’m just … taking some time out.’ Not Luke then. So who was he, and why had she said his name?

  ‘Awww, Ro, I’m DJing tonight! I need to see a friendly face in the crowd!’ The man she’d called Leo leaned against the wall, a self-pitying look on his narrow, pinched face. ‘What do you say? Get your glad rags on, come out with me?’ He looked around at the mess, staring right through Melissa, who was trying on a collection of long beaded necklaces that had been twisted round the handles of the chest of drawers.

  Real-life Rosie scowled. ‘How can I go out? You know I have no money. I don’t have a job any more, do I?’

  She’d been fired? Where from? What kind of mess was she in? She checked in her head but found she had no memory of what her job might be.

  Leo crossed the room. His voice had softened, and he placed his hands on Real-life Rosie’s shoulders. ‘Come on, babe. You’re having a shit time, I know. I’ve been there.’

  ‘Leo, you’ve never even needed a job, let alone been unemployed. You have a trust fund.’

  ‘But I get it. Look, I’ll ask Dad to cut you some slack on the rent, OK? It’s fine if you don’t want to come to the warehouse party. Maybe we can just hang out a bit, chill, you know?’ His voice had risen hopefully, and his hands had started massaging her back.

  ‘He’s talking about sex,’ hissed Melissa, indignant. They didn’t seem to hear her, luckily.

  Now she was watching it, she could feel the memories settle back into place. Leo. Lived downstairs in a much bigger and nicer flat. Part-time DJ and beatboxer. Dad owned the building. Kept ‘just popping by’ to borrow milk and see if she needed any light bulbs changed or big spiders chased off. She hadn’t done anything, had she? Not with Leo. She’d sworn not to, even on the nights when she felt so lonely, and she knew he was just downstairs listening to his terrible dubstep and practising beatboxing into a deodorant can, and sometimes she’d think, Why not? He’s OK-looking, and he clearly likes me, even if he is a total idiot.

  Her past self stared ahead, her eyes dull. Then she swallowed hard, and her voice changed too, became softer. ‘Thanks, dude. Not tonight, though, yeah? I’m not feeling so good.’

  Reluctantly, he removed his hands. ‘OK. I need a spliff anyway to calm me down after all this drama.’ Now he wasn’t touching her, his eyes wandered over her flat. On top of the TV was a photo. The frame had been smashed and Rosie remembered that she kept meaning to get another one, but somehow never did. He picked it up, leaving smeary fingerprints on the glass. ‘Your family? Who’s the kid?’

  Past Rosie sprang to her feet and practically grabbed it from him. ‘Yes. Sorry, Leo, I’ve got stuff to do, would you mind …?’

  Once he was gone, Past Rosie closed the door, slid a bolt into place, and leaned against it with a juddering sigh. Rosie wanted to scream at herself, You almost did it! What’s the matter with you? But she knew she had the answer to that question inside her, and that maybe she wasn’t ready yet to hear it.

  ‘This is my life,’ she murmured, watching her other self cross the tiny room, and instead of washing the dishes or putting away the clothes that littered the floor, crawl into the bed with the not-too-clean duvet and pull it over her head. She still had her shoes on. ‘How can this be my life?’

  Melissa, being a teenager, couldn’t hide her disappointment. ‘You were so cool at school, you know? Rosie Cooke, netball captain. I thought for sure you’d be a top businesswoman with shoulder pads, living with Harrison Ford who’d be making your packed lunch for you.’

  ‘Life isn’t like the films, Mel,’ she said sadly.

  Melissa sighed and started unwinding the many strings of beads she’d twisted about herself. ‘Well,
we have to get back now anyway.’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘Back to the future, Marty!’ She snickered. ‘I loved that film. We have to go back to your conscious mind, such as it is. This is just a memory you were seeing again.’

  ‘But … why?’ Rosie didn’t understand. ‘Why that one, out of all the memories I’ve ever had? Why a boring weekday afternoon, with Leo of all people?’ She watched herself under the covers, only the slow rise and fall of her breath to show she was alive. Was that the point of this? To show her that, last week, she’d been miserable?

  Melissa shrugged. ‘Dunno. It’s your brain directing all this. Come on.’ She reached for Rosie’s hand, the faintest touch, like walking through a heavy fog. ‘Close your eyes, then open them again.’

  Rosie did as she was told, hearing a whooshing sound like a plane coming in to land, and her stomach lurched unpleasantly. When she opened her eyes, she was back in the hospital bed, and Melissa was gone.

  Rosie

  She definitely wasn’t dead. For one thing, she hurt all over, and she was pretty sure that didn’t happen if you were dead. Her lungs felt heavy, and she heard some panicky sounds emanate from her chest. That was good too. She might not be able to speak out loud in this reality, but she was making some sounds. She was alive. And she wasn’t alone. A woman was bending over her, about sixty, with well-styled ash-blonde hair. The smell of her perfume set off all kinds of complicated feelings in Rosie.

  The woman was shouting, ‘She’s choking!’

  The young female doctor (Zara, Rosie remembered) ran in again, checking Rosie’s mouth with efficient care. ‘When they wake up they usually try to reject the breathing tube. It’s such an alien feeling. But she’ll get used to it.’

  ‘She’s awake?’

  ‘Not really. She may be coming back to some consciousness, though, which is a good sign.’

  I’m here, Rosie said, inside her head. I’m awake. The real world seemed clearer this time, the edges sharper, like when you put on glasses.

  The woman’s stricken expression didn’t ease. ‘So … it was an accident? The bus, I mean?’

  Dr Zara, who Rosie had nicknamed Posh Spice, had little time for this speculation. ‘We don’t know what happened. She stepped into the road, witnesses said.’ Rosie would have gaped, had she been able to move her mouth. Was that true? She’d walked in front of it?

  ‘Would someone not notice a bus driving towards them? An enormous red London bus? Could she have been on her phone or something?’

  ‘Maybe. We do see a lot of accidents that way.’ The doctor looped her stethoscope round her neck, tossing back her blonde ponytail. ‘I’ll be back later, Mrs Cooke.’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s … it’s not … Please just call me Alison.’

  Mrs Cooke. Alison. Rosie’s mind reluctantly admitted what she’d known deep down in her bones as soon as she smelled the woman’s perfume. This was her mother, the person who should love her most in the world. So why did it feel so hard to be here, alone in this room with her? Why was her chest heavy, not just with choking, but with painful feelings she couldn’t even name, that made her want to get up from the bed and run?

  The door opened and her mother leapt up, Rosie thought with some relief. It was Daisy. Her sister, Daisy. She had a sister and a mother. Did she also have a father, any other siblings? Rosie couldn’t remember, and thinking about it was painful the way that pressing on a bruise is, so she stopped.

  ‘How is she?’ Daisy’s glasses looked smeared and she’d acquired two paper cups.

  ‘She choked before, trying to get the tube out. So she must be conscious of something at least.’

  I’m here. I can hear you. But Rosie somehow knew that, even if she were conscious and awake and hadn’t been hit by a bus, she’d not have very much to say to her mother and her sister. The sadness of that left an ache under her ribcage.

  Daisy passed over one of the paper cups. ‘Sorry. It’s from a machine. I can go out and find some better stuff. I think there was a café …’

  ‘It’s OK, darling. I don’t want one really. It’s just … something to do with your hands. Where’s Gary?’

  ‘Oh, he … I haven’t told him yet. I – he had a big meeting. I didn’t want to worry him until we knew what was what. Mum … have you spoken to Rosie since … you know?’

  Their mother raised the paper cup to her mouth, as if to hide it so she wouldn’t have to speak. ‘Not really. I – it’s been difficult. Ruining your party like that.’

  ‘I don’t think she meant to.’

  ‘She always does, though. One way or another.’

  ‘Mum …’

  ‘I know. I shouldn’t say it, darling, but it’s true, isn’t it? I know I should have called her. But I just couldn’t. Not after that.’ Her voice was cracking, her face twisted.

  Something squeezed at Daisy’s face too, some emotion, sadness maybe, or guilt. She looked so tired, Rosie thought. Her sister was the healthy one here but she looked like you’d want to sit her down in a big chair with a mug of hot chocolate. In fact … hadn’t Rosie done that, once? The memory was there, untethered from time. Cartoons on the TV. The scum on the milk from where she’d heated it up in the microwave, very carefully. Daisy’s little face. There now. Sit down and watch Thundercats. It’s all going to be OK. When was that? And had it all been OK?

  No. She had the very strong feeling that, if it had, she wouldn’t be in this bed now, with both her mother and her sister afraid to reach out and touch her.

  ‘She looks awful,’ their mother said, almost whispering. ‘I just can’t bear it.’

  Hey! I can hear you, you know.

  ‘The bruising. They said it would go down.’

  ‘I mean underneath that. You can tell she’s not been eating, hasn’t brushed her hair in weeks, and those clothes she was wearing … they looked like pyjamas.’ Her mother picked up Rosie’s limp, unresponsive hand and examined it. ‘And look at her nails. Bitten to the quick. What’s happened to her, Daisy? Why was she even on that bridge, first thing in the morning? Is it because I … because of what I said to her?’

  ‘Mum, I … I’m sure it isn’t. We don’t even know if she … It could have been an accident.’

  ‘I should have called her. Why didn’t I call her?’

  Daisy reached out her free hand as if she might touch Rosie’s foot, or move the blanket into place, but then she let it drop. ‘Is there anything I can do? I could go to the shops, or … I don’t know. Is there someone we should call?’

  Her mother sighed. ‘I suppose you already called him. Where is he?’ Who were they talking about? The mysterious Luke?

  ‘He has to get Scarlett from school first.’

  ‘Oh, he does that now, does he? That’s a change.’

  ‘He was very upset.’

  ‘He was always useless in a crisis. We need to be strong for Rosie, make plans. Get organised.’

  ‘Tell me something I can do. I can’t just sit here.’ Daisy was mangling the paper cup in her hands.

  ‘What about calling her friends? Is there anyone she’s close to? Ingrid, maybe? They were always such good pals. Or that nice girl Caroline?’

  ‘I’m not sure they’re in touch still, Mum.’

  ‘Oh. There must be someone you can think of?’

  ‘Well … not really, no.’

  Rosie was a little shocked at that. Wasn’t your family supposed to think the best of you? Hers seemed to think she was unstable, ill-kempt, and had no friends.

  Were they right?

  ‘She’ll need some things. Toiletries, clothes … I could go to her flat when he gets here?’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Some underwear and pyjamas maybe. You always want nice pyjamas when you’re in them all day.’

  Daisy looked happier already at the prospect of doing things, but then her phone rang. Guiltily, she seized it, turning to the wall and lowering her voice. ‘Hi. Yeah. St Thomas’s. Parking – um, I don’t know, I’d h
ave thought not.’

  Rosie’s mother rolled her eyes.

  ‘ICU, yeah. They’re … hopeful. Ish. She tried to cough out the breathing tube earlier and … Yeah, there’s a tube, but I think that’s kind of standard and … OK, OK. See you soon.’

  She hung up. Their mother shook her head. ‘What did I tell you? Useless.’

  What was going on? What had happened to their family, and why weren’t they speaking to her? Was there a memory that could explain it for her? She wondered if another denizen of the afterlife would show up to guide her through it.

  ‘It’s me this time,’ said a kind, worried voice. ‘I hope that’s all right.’

  Rosie tried to crane her neck, but couldn’t, because of the brace. ‘Hello?’

  Now there was a figure at the bottom of her bed, right in the path of Daisy’s pacing, but neither she nor their mother seemed to notice. The figure gave an awkward little wave. A middle-aged man in a tank top, with balding, mad-scientist hair and rimless glasses.

  ‘Mr Malcolm?’ Rosie squinted at him. Was it really her secondary school French and Drama teacher, standing there by her bed? Oh God.

  ‘Bonjour! Yes, it’s me.’

  ‘Are you …?’

  ‘Oh yes. Pancreatic cancer, carried me off in a month. There was a special school assembly and some of the students even put their phones away for it. That was nice.’

  ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. Was it like this for you?’

  ‘Your life flashing before your eyes? Everyone has it, yes. Some for less time than others. A coma means you get more than most. Now, are you ready for your next memory?’

  ‘What will it be?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, dear.’

  With the arrival of Mr Malcolm, Rosie suddenly had access to a whole filing cabinet in her head marked ‘School Memories’. So many of them, some she hadn’t looked at in years. The rubbery smell of the mats in the gym. The itchiness of her grey wool uniform, the feeling she was going to slip into a boredom coma (as opposed to this real one) in lessons, the haze of Impulse body spray in the girls’ loos. She tried to remember who her friends had been at school. But the real world was starting to flicker and blur again, as if the light was broken.