Vicky Angel

by Jacqueline Wilson

  Vicky's hand is still warm. I know it as well as my own, her little rounded nails with their silver nail varnish partly nibbled off, and the special silver thumb ring I gave her for Christmas. I wanted it for myself but I didn't have enough cash for two and it turned out it was way too big for me anyway. I'm clutching Vicky's hand so hard I'm deepening all the delicate whorls on her palm. We found this book on palm reading at a rummage sale but I couldn't work out which line was which. Vicky made out she could read her own palm and said she was going to have a very long life and have two husbands and four children.

  “You've got a long life, Vicky. Remember the two husbands and all the children?” I remind her, squeezing her hand. She doesn't squeeze back. She lies there, her face pale, her eyes shut, her mouth slightly open as if she's about to say something—but she stays silent.

  I'm the one who talks all the way to the hospital, holding her hand tight, but I have to let go when we arrive outside Casualty. I run along beside her until she's suddenly wheeled right away from me by an urgent medical team.

  I'm left, lost.

  A nurse talks to me. She's asking me my name but I'm in such a muddle I give her Vicky's name instead, Vicky's address, as if Vicky has taken me over completely. I only realize what I've done when she gives me a cup of tea and says, “Here, drink this, Vicky.”

  My teeth clink on the china.

  “I'm not Vicky,” I say, and I start to cry. “Please, what's the matter with her? Will she get better? There isn't a mark on her so she has to be all right, doesn't she?”

  The nurse puts her arm round me.

  “We can't say yet—but I think she might have pretty bad internal injuries. Now we need to get hold of her parents as quickly as possible. Would you know where they work?”

  I give her the names of the places. I see a policeman and try to tell him stuff, but I can't think straight anymore. I have another cup of tea. There's a chocolate biscuit too but when the chocolate oozes around my teeth I have to run to the toilet to be sick.

  I can't get rid of the taste now. Different nurses come and talk to me but I'm quieter than ever in case they think my breath always smells bad. I don't know what to do. We've got heaps of homework tonight, French and history and math. We always do our math together, Vicky's much better at it than I am. We test each other on French too. I can't do it on my own. I'm mad anyway, fussing about stupid things like bad breath and homework when my best friend is down the corridor, maybe dying….

  Of course she's not dying. Vicky is the most alive person I've ever known. She will get completely better and we'll talk about this time with a shudder. I'll give her a big hug and say, “I thought you were really going to die, Vicky,” and she'll laugh and pull a funny death face, eyes bulging, tongue lolling, and spin some yarn about an out-of-body experience. Yes, she'll say she flew up out of her own body and cartwheeled along the ceiling and peered unmasked at all the operations and tickled the handsomest doctor on the top of his head and then she swooped all the way along the corridors and found me weeping so she linked little fingers with me in our special secret way and then whizzed back into her own body again so we could grow up together and be soul sisters forever….

  Can't I go and sit with Vicky?” I beg. “No, pet, the doctors are busy working on her,” says the nurse.

  “I wouldn't get in the way, I swear. I could just hold her hand. I did in the ambulance.”

  “Yes, yes, you've been a really great girl. You've done your best for Vicky—but maybe you should go home now.”

  “I can't go home!”

  “What about your mum? Won't she be worried about you?”

  “Mum's at work. And Dad will think I'm round at Vicky's.”

  “We should try to get hold of them all the same.”

  But she's distracted from the subject of my parents because Vicky's mum and dad suddenly run into Casualty. Mrs. Waters has come straight from her aerobics class. She's still in her shocking pink leotard with someone else's too-big tracksuit trousers pulled on top for decency. Mr. Waters is still wearing his yellow hard hat from the building site. They gaze round desperately and then see me.

  “Jade! Oh God, where's Vicky? We got the message. Is she badly hurt? What happened?”

  “She got knocked over by a car. I … she stepped out—she just went straight into it,” I gabble. I hear the squeal of brakes and that one high-pitched scream.

  The scream won't stop in my head. It's so loud maybe everyone else can hear it too.

  “Knocked over?” says Mrs. Waters. “Oh God. Oh God.”

  “Now, we mustn't panic. She'll be all right, just you wait and see,” says Mr. Waters. He looks at the nurse with me. “Where is she?”

  “Just wait here one second, sir,” she says, and she rushes off.

  “We're not waiting! She's our daughter!” says Mr. Waters, and he hurries after her.

  Vicky's mum is staring at me.

  “Did you get knocked down too, Jade?”

  I shake my head.

  “It was just Vicky. Like I said, she dashed out—”

  “Couldn't you have stopped her?”

  She doesn't wait for an answer. She runs after Mr. Waters. I stand still. I don't know I'm crying until the nurse comes back and presses a wad of paper hankies into my palm.

  “There, now, don't worry. She didn't mean it. She didn't even realize what she was saying. She's in shock.”

  “But why didn't I stop her?” I weep.

  “There now. Come on, let's try ringing your mum at work. You need someone to be here for you.”

  The only one I want is Vicky. It's so unfair. They let her mum and dad see her but they still won't let me.

  They come back and sit on the chairs opposite me. Mr. Waters has taken his hard hat off but Mrs. Waters can do nothing about her leotard. Her face is white above the bright pink.

  “She's in a coma,” she whispers. “The doctor says—” She can't finish the sentence.

  “Now then, they don't know everything. People come out of comas all the time.”

  “But—her brain …”

  “We'll help her. Teach her everything all over again. She'll be fine, I just know she will. And even if she's not she'll still be our Vicky and we'll love her and care for her,” he says.

  “Our Vicky a vegetable,” Mrs. Waters gasps.

  “No, no. We'll be quiet now, we're frightening poor Jade,” says Mr. Waters, reaching over and giving my knee a pat.

  I can barely look at either of them. I close my eyes instead and start praying. I make all kinds of bargains. I'll promise anything just so long as Vicky can be all right. It's lengthy and involved, because I repeat everything seven times to make it more magic. I keep my eyes squeezed shut. They think I've fallen asleep and start to whisper. They go over and over it, trying to puzzle it out.

  “Why our Vicky?” Mrs. Waters keeps saying.

  I know what she really means. Why couldn't it be Jade?

  I have it all worked out. I'll always be here for Vicky. I'll have to go home sometimes but I won't go to school, I'll spend every single day at her bedside. I'll hold her hand and talk to her all the time and maybe, just maybe I'll crack some joke or sing some song that will seep through the fog in her brain and she'll suddenly open her eyes and grip my hand back, Vicky again. But even if she doesn't I'll still be there for her. When she's allowed home I'll visit her every single day. I'll take her out in a wheelchair and take her round all our special places and I'll do her hair for her just the way she likes and I'll dress her in all her coolest outfits. I'll make sure she stays looking like Vicky no matter what. And when we're both old enough I'll see if we can get a flat together, Vicky and me. We'll live off benefit or whatever and be just fine together. People will think I'm making this huge sacrifice, giving up my whole future for Vicky, but I don't want any future without her. There isn't any other future for me. I can't exist without Vicky.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Waters—I wonder, would you come into my office, pleas
e?”

  I open my eyes. It's another nurse, and a young doctor, a tired-looking guy with lank greasy hair. Poor Vicky, she'll have hoped for a George Clooney look-alike.

  I don't know why they're going into the office. To discuss Vicky's treatment? Maybe they want to try an operation? I watch them go and then close my eyes and try more bargaining. The rituals get crazier. I have to count to 100 and then stand up, turn round, sit down, another 100, more standing, turning, sitting, another 100 … I must look mad but who cares? Anyway, I can pretend I'm just stretching my legs. If I can make it to 1000 uninterrupted then Vicky might just be all right. I have to try for her. I count and count and count. I'm on the last 100 now, I keep miscounting, getting lost, repeating the 60s and 70s in case I've made a mistake. I have to do it properly. I can't stop now. I can't stop for anything….

  Crying. Mrs. Waters. And Mr. Waters.

  I can't let them interrupt me!

  “Jade.” It's the nurse again.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. Eighty-one, eighty-two, nearly there, eighty-three …

  “Jade, our Vicky, she didn't make it,” Mr. Waters sobs.

  I know what he means. Of course I do. But I can't let it mean that.

  “She didn't make what?” I say.

  Mrs. Waters gives a little groan. He puts his arm round her.

  “I'm afraid Vicky died,” the nurse says quietly.

  I stand there, shaking my head, my fists clenched. If I utterly refuse to believe it then maybe it won't have happened.

  “Come along, Jade,” says Mr. Waters. “You'd better come home with us.”

  “I—I need to stay here.”

  I'll be the one there for Vicky when she suddenly sits up and they realize their mistake. Vicky can't be dead. I won't let her be dead.

  Mr. Waters looks worried about me but he's too busy caring for his wife. She looks like she can't bear to be in the same car with me anyway. So they go and leave me with the nurse.

  “Vicky can't be dead,” I whisper.

  “I know it must be so hard to take in. But it's true.”

  “She's just in a coma. You look dead in a coma.”

  “Darling, we've done all the tests. Vicky's dead.”

  “Why can't you put her on a life-support machine? Or do that stuff with paddles and shock her back to life?”

  “The medical team worked desperately hard. They did everything. Everyone wanted Vicky to live. But she had really bad internal injuries—and then she had a heart attack—no one could save her. We were all very, very sad.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “I'm afraid you can't, pet. You're not a relative.”

  “I'm like her sister.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “You don't know. No one knows. No one but Vicky.”

  She tries to put her arm round me but I pull away. I start running, all the way down the corridor, the rubber soles of my school shoes squeaking on the polished floor. They make a blurred repetitive sound, almost as if there's someone else following along right behind me. If only it were Vicky …

  I run right out of the hospital. I run and run and run. I'm a useless runner but now I can't stop, on and on and on, down toward the town, my schoolbag thumping me hard on the back. What's happened to Vicky's schoolbag? I wonder about all Vicky's things. What about her clothes? Is she still wearing her tie and her blazer and her too-short school skirt under a hospital sheet?

  I'm not sure of my way. I really need to slow down and get my bearings but I can't stop. My legs keep pounding. I can't breathe. I've got such a stitch I feel I've got giant staples in my sides. I run on, bumping into folk, stumbling, grazing my knees like a little kid. They sting, blood trickling down one leg but I still don't stop. I'm running toward school. There's no way I can stop myself. There's a clump of people all around the school gates. What are they looking at? There by the side of the road, right where Vicky lay, is a bunch of red roses. It's as if any spilt blood has been magically morphed into sweet-smelling flowers.

  I stand still, swaying, staring at the bouquet. Someone has written a message: FOR VICKY. I WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER YOU. Vicky's only been dead an hour and yet she's already a memory.

  “Wow! I've always wanted a big bunch of red roses,” says Vicky.

  I whirl round. There she is, right behind me, her long hair blowing in the breeze. My Vicky. Really.

  She grins at my expression.

  “You look as if you've seen a ghost!” she says, and then cracks up laughing.

  “I don't believe it!”

  “What do you think it's like for me?” says Vicky. “It's bad enough when you see a ghost. It's much odder being one.”

  “You—you really are …?”

  “Don't look so daft, Jade, of course I am! OK, OK. Now we have to do the you-shoving-your-hand-through-me bit. Put your hand out, go on. Not there! You know how ticklish I am. I can still feel, sort of, even if you can't feel me.”

  My hand shakily scythes through Vicky's waist. She gets the giggles. I start giggling too. I always catch the giggles from Vicky, we get into heaps of trouble at school … Oh God, I'm in trouble now. There's a little crowd of white-faced mourners standing at the edge of the pavement, looking at the tire marks in the road and the flowers where Vicky died. They're looking at me too. And I'm laughing.

  “Can they see you too, Vicky?”

  “Nope. Don't think so. Though we'd better make sure.” She dances up to a middle-aged woman in a T-shirt and leggings and waves her hands right in front of her face. The woman doesn't blink.

  Vicky laughs. “Can you hear me?” she bellows, right in her ear.

  The woman's head doesn't jerk. She's looking right at me, frowning.

  “She can't hear you either,” I say.

  “No, but she can hear you, idiot,” says Vicky. “You'll have to talk in a whisper, Jade—and try not to move your lips.”

  “What do you think I am, a ventriloquist?” I mutter.

  The woman is coming over to me. Help!

  “Did you hear about the accident?” she says. “Obviously not. A girl about your age. Your school too. She was run over. Today. It was awful, blood all over….”

  “Silly old bat! I didn't spill a drop of blood,” says Vicky. “Tell her to shove off. And fancy wearing leggings with a bum like that!”

  I have to fight to keep a straight face. The woman jabbers away, getting unpleasantly excited. Two girls, sixth graders in tracksuits after games practice, have got their arms round each other. They're both crying, though I'm not sure they've ever even spoken to Vicky. They know her, though. Everyone in our school knows Vicky.

  “Isn't that Vicky Waters' friend?” one says, looking startled.

  They blink at me as if they've caught me doing something disgusting in public.

  “Look sad, idiot,” Vicky hisses. “Come on. Cry a little. Act like you care.”

  My head is spinning. They're coming over to talk to me, solemn and red-eyed.

  “Were you with Vicky when it happened?” one asks, speaking in a hushed holy voice like a vicar.

  I nod. Vicky's nodding too, playing the fool.

  “It must be so awful for you. I just can't believe it, can you?”

  I nod again. I can't believe it. I can't believe any of this.

  “You look as if you're still in shock. Would you like us to walk you home?”

  I panic at this.

  “No, I'm fine. Well, I'm not, obviously, but I think I want to be on my own.”

  I hurry on before they can argue with me. Vicky hurries too. I'm certainly not on my own. Vicky doesn't just walk beside me. She rushes ahead and then circles back, whirling around me, even through me. Then she hovers above my head, grinning down at me. I have to crane my neck to talk to her.

  “Are you flying?”

  “It's pretty cool, right?”

  “Have you got wings?”

  Vicky feels.

  “Nope. Good. They'd be a bit uncomfy, dragging me
down at the back. And how could you wear a bra with great feathery bits getting in the way of the strap?”

  “Are you wearing a bra now? And knickers and all your other stuff?”

  “Of course! What kind of a creepy question is that?”

  “Well, I don't know. I mean, you don't really think about ghosts having underwear.” I suddenly realize what Vicky is wearing: the really gorgeous black trousers and the black-and-silver designer top we looked at in Style when Vicky's mum took us to the Lakelands Shopping Centre.

  She sees me looking and grins.

  “Don't they look good, eh?”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “Well, I haven't had time to go wandering round the Great Shopping Centre in the Sky,” says Vicky, rolling her eyes. “I simply decided what I wanted to wear and they just materialized. Neat, eh?”

  “Can't you get some for me too?”

  “No, mine are kind of Ghost label, look,” says Vicky, holding her top out. My finger flips right through the material, feeling nothing.

  “You were joking about the Shopping Centre in the Sky?”

  “Please!”

  “But—but have you been there? You know. Heaven?”

  “I haven't had a chance, have I? I only died this afternoon! I've just been kind of drifting ever since. I'm probably still in a state of shock.”

  “Me too. Vicky, what was it like? Dying?”

  She whirls round and round, making me feel dizzy, but she doesn't say anything.

  “Tell me!”

  We always tell each other everything.

  “It was … it was so quick. I was just yakking away to you, right, and then you—”

  “Don't! Please don't! I don't want to remember!”

  “No wonder!” But she takes pity on me. “OK, so this car goes WHACK, right into me, and I go WHAM on the ground and then … then it's all muddly. There was a terrible jolty bit and someone was holding my hand.”

  “Me!”

  “I know it was you. There! You're in my dying moments, Jade.”

  “And when you did die? What did it feel like?”

  “You sound like one of those stupid journalists. Tell us what it felt like when your brain swelled up and your heart went PHUT, Vicky, and we'll spread it all over the front page of our tabloids. OK, I was lying there in the hospital, and all these medics were mucking around with me just the way they do in ER, and there was this saddo guy with long greasy hair—”