“As soon as she works out how?” He shakes his head, adding a muttered, “That’s reassuring.”
Her innocent gaze meets his cynical one.
“Tell him thank you from me,” I say.
“Mummy says thank you.”
“For coming to see me in hospital,” I continue.
She repeats my words.
“Tess . . .” He trails off, brow furrowed. Tries again. “Look, Squirt, I know it’s hard, with your mum in hospital and your dad so busy.”
He reaches out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “Sometimes we need someone to talk to, and it doesn’t matter if they’re real or make-believe. You just talk to whoever makes you feel better, okay?”
My teeth grind together. He thinks I’m a figment of her imagination.
“When I was a kid,” he continues, “I used to talk to Ra-ra, my lion.”
“A real one?” Her eyes widen.
He laughs. “No. Ra-ra was a soft toy. I’m just saying . . . it’s okay to talk to your mum if you miss her or you want to tell her about your day.”
He lifts her onto his knee and gives her a hug. “If it makes you feel better, you keep doing it.”
My jaw is so tight it aches. Stupid man. This isn’t working. Maybe Nate isn’t the right person to use, after all. But who else is there? Mum’s fully occupied helping out with Tess, Geoff’s more absent than present, and Tess is too young to be advocating for her dying mother. Which leaves Cynthia, but her primary focus seems to be . . . well, not Faith-in-the-bed. Who knows when—if—she’ll be back.
“Uncle Nate?” Tess shifts on his knee so she can see his face. “Mummy really wants to talk to you. Can you talk to her? Please? Even though you can’t see her?”
He holds her gaze, and for a moment it seems he’s considering it. Then he sighs, dredges up a smile, kisses her forehead, and sets her on her feet.
“This masterpiece of yours,” he says. “Let’s pin it on the wall where everyone can see it, then we’ll head out for a while.”
Tess’s face falls.
Why is he so blinkered to this? Idiot. But much as I want to yell in his face I don’t; I paste a smile on my face and give Tess a cheery thumbs-up. I can’t let this get to her. She’s my lifeline and I need her in top form.
Now what? My head spins, but I force myself to breathe deeply, to stay focused, to take a moment and really think. Think. Think strategically. Think intelligently.
There’s no alternative: it has to be Nate. So what am I going to do to prove my presence to him? Prove it so thoroughly he can’t deny it?
# # #
It’s just gone midday when Mum returns.
Tess and Nate, sitting on the floor, look up from their game of Pairs.
“You’re back early,” says Nate.
Mum shrugs. “I couldn’t concentrate. I just . . .”
She sighs. “I need to be here, Nathan.”
He nods, turns over two cards, ta-dah’s the pair in front of Tess, then smiles back at Mum.
“You’re too good,” grumbles Tess.
“Time out.” Nate unfolds his legs and stands. “Back in five. I need to talk to Nan.”
Mum pales as she clocks his expression. “What’s wrong?”
Nate thrusts his hands in his back pockets and heads for the door.
“Nothing, nothing, just . . .” He indicates Tess with his eyes. “Can we talk out here?”
Mum nods and follows him into the corridor. Tess frowns as she watches them leave.
“Don’t worry, honey,” I say. “It’s just adult stuff. They’ll be back soon.”
The door closes and I decide it’s more important for me to hear their conversation than keep Tess company. With a silent apology to my daughter, I merge through the wall and eavesdrop.
Nate gets straight to the point. “I’m worried about Tess.”
“Yes.” Mum hugs her arms. Her hands pluck at the sleeves of her jersey. “So am I. She’s so vulnerable. She needs her mother. I’m a poor substitute.”
“Kathy, that’s not what I meant.” He places a steadying hand on her shoulder. “You’re doing a wonderful job. She’s very lucky to have you.”
“But I’m not her mother.”
“No.” He pauses, looking up and slightly left, towards me.
My heart leaps. But—no. He’s just searching for the right words.
“On the face of it Tess seems to be coping well.” His gaze returns to Mum. “But have you noticed how often she escapes into her imagination?”
Mum’s hand stills.
“You know,” he says, “I think she’s convinced herself Faith is actually talking to her.”
“It does sound like that at times.”
“I’m worried, Kathy. She seems to be losing track of what’s real and what’s not.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “I think we should get her to a therapist.”
My mouth drops. My gut rolls, leaving me clammy-handed. A therapist? Tess is the one person in the family who can actually see me. She doesn’t need therapy. She needs hugs and a new pink crayon and more attention from her father—but therapy? No way.
Mum frowns. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“Look, it may be nothing. But what if there’s something more serious going on? Something that’s going to need professional help?”
What the hell? He thinks Tess needs professional help? Indignation rumbles in my chest.
“Faith, your energy would be far better focused on more pressing issues.”
Trust Gran to show up. I round on her. “If Tess’s wellbeing isn’t a pressing issue I don’t know what is.”
Unbalanced, my ass.
And speaking of unbalanced, what is Gran doing wearing those oversized, electric blue, make-a-statement glasses? They make her look like a stuffed owl.
Gran regards me with disapproval. “Nathan is as concerned for Tess as you are. Which is why he brought it up. Stuffed owl, indeed.”
Mum shakes her head. “I suppose you’re right, Nathan. But—a therapist? It sounds so . . . major.”
“If she looked sick we’d take her to a doctor,” he reasons.
“Some uncle he turned out to be,” I mutter, gliding furiously back and forth.
“Darling,” says Gran.
The word hangs between us like an icicle. I narrow my eyes at her. Don’t you darling me.
She raises an eyebrow. One beat, two, and the shame hits. I duck my head, breaking eye contact.
“Why are you being so hostile?” asks Gran. “What has Nathan done that is so wrong?”
I gape at her. “You heard him. He just called my beautiful, well-adjusted daughter unbalanced.”
“Fiddlesticks. He showed genuine concern for her. You should be glad.”
“No, Faith.” Her hand stops me before I can argue. “Not another word. The truth is you’re upset he didn’t believe Tess. Don’t be petty. Give the man some time.”
“I don’t have time! If he opened his eyes and ears . . .”
“Faith. Until your accident, had you seen or heard or even felt me around you?”
That’s so unfair. I remember nothing from before my accident and she knows it. But the glint in her eye kills the protest on my lips. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“The answer is no. Not once have you noticed my presence. Since passing over I have tried countless times to communicate with you, and did you ever show the slightest awareness of me? No. So, please, not another word. Nathan is there for your daughter. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She’s right, of course. Nate would give Tess the shirt off his back. He’s one of the good guys.
Mum speaks into the silence. “I’ll make some calls.”
Chapter Seventeen
My room looks like a fairy dell. Flowers and toadstools brighten the walls, crepe-paper petals are strewn all around, strings of crepe-paper leaves hang in the doorway, and forest-green streamers dangle from the ceiling. A huge banner across the window declares ‘Happy Bi
rthday Tess!’ How they’ve convinced the nurses to turn a blind eye to it all I have no idea.
A visitor’s chair, with the aid of a purple throw and a glossy red cushion, has been transformed into a throne. On it sits Tess, proud and excited, wearing a sparkly crown and multi-coloured cape. I feel as if I should know the cape, but I’m not sure why.
Mum steps forward holding a magnificent cake, the sort of cake every girl longs for, its iced woodland fairy setting so beautifully crafted I move in for a closer look. It must have taken hours. Every leaf individually crafted. Every flower an original. Butterflies on wires. Tiny toadstools. Bambi. A couple of rabbits. And, in the centre of it all, a winged fairy on a red throne, surrounded by seven glowing candles. Mum places the cake on a stool before Tess.
Her eyes widen. “Epic,” she breathes.
Geoff, hunkered down next to Tess, says, “Wow, Kathy. That’s impressive.” Then, to Tess, “You are one lucky girl.”
Mum smiles at him, winks at Tess, lights the candles and steps back.
Cynthia closes in on the cake, and as her camera goes click-click-click I’m in another room, on another day, and Cynth is in full swing as she records my every move.
“Okay, shoulders back, turn to the left, yep, a bit further . . . that’s it. Now flirt with me.”
I wrinkle my nose at her. “Do I have to?”
Click-click-click goes her camera. “You have to.”
I’m so not a model.
She straightens and shoots me a schoolmarm look. “Come on, lean back against the wall and make like a model. Yeah, now pout. And . . .”
Click-click-click.
“Now look at me like you’re thinking dirty thoughts. That’s better. Bat your eyelashes, change position, make love to the wall . . .”
I drop my pose. “Exactly how do I make love to a wall?”
“You said you wanted a hot pic for Nate to take away with him. So heat it up. Imagine him naked, then get daring and—”
“Like this?”
She giggles. Starts shooting. “That’ll do.”
Everyone starts singing, bringing me back to the party and Cynthia’s more G-rated shots.
Tess sits on her throne, pleased as punch and unexpectedly shy as everyone sings.
“Happy birthday dear Te-ess . . .”
“I feel like a freak,” I whisper to Gran. “Everyone knows the song except me.”
She smiles. “You’ll remember it soon.”
Soon? The thought fills me with hope and, hot on its heels, dread. Because we both know there are only two ways my memory can return. Either I’ll be back in my body—or dead.
Speaking of freaks, Gran’s outdone herself today. A pink panther costume, no less, complete with flip-top head.
“What’s with the costume?” I murmur as everyone sings the final line of the song.
“It’s a onesie.” Then, as I look at her blankly, “A one-piece pyjama set. Very hip,” she adds. “I am without doubt the coolest gran in town.”
“Dead or alive,” I insert.
She grins. “Precisely.”
“One, two . . .”
Everyone counts as they clap and, taking my cue from Mum, I clap along.
“. . . six, seven!”
Everyone cheers. I watch on, smiling, so full of love and heartache it hurts to breathe.
Seven. My daughter is seven years old today.
“Happy birthday, darling,” I say.
Cynthia takes a photo of Tess and Geoff, heads close, beaming above her cake.
Geoff stands back. “Blow out the candles, Pumpkin.”
He grins at Tess, who presses her hands to her cheeks, eyes glowing with excitement.
She takes a deep breath, leans forward, and blows. Cynthia click-click-clicks her camera. Another quick huff and Tess conquers the last candle. Everyone cheers again.
I glide close and give Tess a hug.
“Love you, hon,” I say, inordinately grateful she can hear—and feel—me.
Geoff chucks Tess’s chin. “How does it feel to be seven?”
“The best.” She grins.
“Have you worked out your birthday wish?” He waggles his eyebrows at her.
Her grin widens. “Ah-huh.”
I watch on, fascinated. Geoff’s a different man today; a real dad. A fun one, too. One I might have wanted to marry.
“Right-o, then. Let’s get it written and posted, shall we?”
She grins, bouncing with excitement. “Okay.”
From an innocuous-looking supermarket bag he ta-dah’s a clipboard bearing a sheet of pastel-pink paper.
He stands in front of her and, with an exaggerated bow and a, “Your Highness,” proffers her the clipboard.
She giggles.
He takes a pen from his pocket and flourishes it in front of her. “Your wish is my command, Fairy Princess.”
She giggles again.
Mum cuts the cake and offers everyone a piece. Tess writes, an expression of fierce concentration on her face.
Cake duties complete, Mum hovers next to Nate.
“You and Geoff are being very civilised today,” she says.
Nate grunts. “Figure I should make an effort since it’s Tess’s birthday.”
He pauses, glances at Geoff.
“Even if he is a tosser,” he adds.
She purses her lips but it doesn’t disguise her smile. Then her expression turns serious.
“I had a phone call before,” she murmurs. “Detective Inspector John Brady. He had lots of questions.”
Nate’s lips curve. “Good. John’s my contact down at Central. He’ll ask the hard questions if nobody else is bothering.”
“Actually, he seemed to be asking the same questions as the last policeman.”
“Checking the accuracy of the notes, probably. He’s thorough.”
“Great cake, by the way.” Nate mumbles through the crumbs. “You’ve outdone yourself this time.”
Then, as he takes in her anxiety, “Kathy, it’s all good. If anyone’s going to notice flaws in that suicide argument it’ll be John.”
She nods slowly. Takes a deep breath, relaxes. “Thank you. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”
Nate gives her shoulder a reassuring rub then wanders over to Tess. “Hey, Squirt, what’s that you’re writing?”
“Can’t tell.” She pulls the clipboard to her chest, hiding her work.
“Why not?”
“’Cause . . .” She pauses, standing on tippy-toe to pull him down so she can whisper in his ear. “. . . it’s a real wish. It’s going to come true.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” Her expression is full of wonder. “That’s why you have to think really hard before you make your wish. Because once it’s made—” she shrugs “—too late. It happens.”
“You,” says Nate, touching a finger to her nose, “are a very wise girl.”
Tess puts down the pen. “Finished.”
Geoff smiles and lifts a tinselled, tasselled box from the bedside cabinet. He brings it over to her and, with another low bow, kneels and holds the box before her. It’s a postbox, I realise.
“Your birthday wish, Your Highness,” he says.
She folds the paper in half, and in half again. Everyone claps as she posts her wish. Cynthia takes more photos.
I’m curious. What do seven-year-old girls yearn for? Sparkly jewellery? Princess clothes? Trips to magical lands?
Geoff shakes the box, his head cocked to one side. “Yep, that definitely sounds like it’s going to come true. Good choice, Pumpkin.”
She beams, and I beam with her. I love this post-the-birthday-wish ritual. I love the party efforts—Kathy’s cake, the throne, the room. But what I love most of all is Geoff-the-father. Today he is totally, one hundred percent there for Tess. And Tess loves it. I take my hat off to him. When he makes the effort he is a fantastic dad.
Why can’t he make the effort more often?
“She reminds m
e of you,” murmurs Gran, watching Tess.
“Really?”
Her smile is nostalgic. “When you were a kid you were so . . .”
She pauses then shrugs. “. . . happy.”
And, although she doesn’t say it, I’m left with the clear impression my happy vibes didn’t continue into adulthood.
“I wonder what she wished for,” I whisper.
“You didn’t read it?”
“No!” I look at Gran, shocked. “It’s secret.”
“Yet you read the detective’s secrets.”
“That was different.”
Gran shakes her head. “You’ll never beat Death if you’re always a step behind. Be more nosey, Faith.”
Her words are unsettling. What if Tess’s wish contained some kind of get-out-of-Death code? What if this was a test, and I just failed because I didn’t show enough commitment to the cause?
Blast. And now it’s too late. Her wish is posted, folded so tight I’ll never be able to read it, even if I shove my head inside the box.
“Too late, forget it,” says Gran. Then, nodding towards the corridor, “Keep an eye on Geoff.”
She fades towards invisibility. “I’d better go or I’ll be hauled up for interference.”
I look for Geoff and spot him in the corridor, talking—surprise, surprise—on his mobile phone. So much for being Daddy for the day. If I ever work out how to move more than a strand of hair I’ll toss that phone down the toilet.
Just as I head through the wall to eavesdrop, he pockets the mobile and comes back into the room.
“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, to no-one in particular.
Tess is in the middle of opening her presents, and paper is strewn everywhere. I grin. She’s having the time of her life. Geoff watches on, also smiling. Deep down, I think he really is a decent guy who wants the best for his daughter. This, at least, we have in common. I hope I find more to like about him. For Tess’s sake, if not my own.
Geoff goes and stands by the window, a little apart from the family group. He leans back against the sill, still watching Tess, but his smile is gone and there’s a faraway look in his eyes. What now?
Cynthia comes to his side, placing a hand on his arm as she gives him a questioning look. He covers her hand with his own then, with a gentle squeeze, removes it from his arm.
The Trouble With Dying Page 12