Which, let’s face it, is exactly where I should be: outside. And that hurts. It hurts with an intensity I’m struggling to bear—but I’ve broken my marriage vows. I’ve slept with another man.
Gran, bless her forward-thinking heart, would probably argue that wasn’t the case at all—my body’s been lying comatose, on life support, in a hospital bed.
But in my heart I was unfaithful to my husband, and I know it.
Gran would no doubt point out my husband attempted to murder me, and he was also having an affair; why should I show loyalty to a husband like that?
I drag in my breath on a sob. I’m so conflicted. If I stay with Geoff I’ll be unhappy; maybe even dead. If I go to Nate I’ll be unhappy, and I will have broken my family.
Family. You don’t break your family. Family is everything.
Daddy leaving. Suitcase in hand, one last hug, walking away without a goodbye wave.
Why? The question running through my head, over and over. Standing at the window, palm pressed to pane, watching the space where he used to be. Tears. Sadness so deep I feel hollow inside.
Mummy crying, day after day, week after week. The photos: gone. The big-man gumboots: gone. The fun and laughter: gone. Daddy, come back. I miss you. Grey days, cold nights, big-scary-monster dreams.
One year, two years, life dragging on. Colours gradually blending in, banishing the monsters, banishing the grey.
Daddy? It’s you? Hope, hatred. Love, loss. Nothing makes sense. Tea and cookies, stilted talk, Dad’s false brightness, Mum’s raw pain.
Sign here, many thanks, spring wedding, must dash.
Mum’s cleaning. My anger: “Families are meant to be made, not un-made.”
My cleaning. Mum’s anger: “Family is everything. We are his loss.”
Cynthia’s voice pulls me back from the past.
Somehow, I feel more whole than I was mere seconds ago. This memory has taken me right to the heart of me. Before, I knew what I felt but I didn’t know why. Now I know why, and it makes so much more sense.
I made a decision about my family and who would be in it seven years ago. Whatever the reason, it was my clear and sane choice. And if I’m going to un-make that choice it had better be with a damn good reason.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Cynthia sits and crosses her legs in one graceful movement. She looks at Faith-in-the-bed, a half-smile playing on her lips, and for the umpteenth time I wonder what she’s thinking.
Her gaze snaps to Nate. She looks him up and down. “I meant what I said, you know. You should go tidy up.”
Arms crossed, his back to the window, he steadily returns her gaze.
“I’ll keep her company. Go take a shower.” She arches a brow. “I promise to take good care of Faith.”
Nate’s brows draw close. He humpfs. Then, abruptly, he nods.
Cynthia takes out her compact and checks her makeup, barely acknowledging him.
He goes into the ensuite, and as he snips the lock behind him she says, “Well, Faith, it’s just you and me. How cosy. What shall we talk about?”
I don’t know. Nor do I care. This is Day Seven and I have better things to do than sit around watching Cynthia be all best-friends-forever with me.
Through the wall I hear the shower. Excellent. Shower means steam, and I really need to talk to Nate. What we shared last night wasn’t just a quick thrill for me. My pulse kicks up as I recall our lovemaking. Passionate and exciting, but it went far deeper than that for me. It moved me. It was honest and open and put me back in touch with my emotional core. But what good is any of that if Nate didn’t feel the same?
I need to know. If today is my last day, let me be at peace when I die. Let me at least know he loved me back—or didn’t.
Suddenly nervous, I take a bracing breath and merge through to the ensuite.
Although the water’s running, he’s not in the shower. He’s not even undressed. He’s leaning against the door, fully clothed, mobile phone in hand, and showing no interest whatsoever in freshening up.
Through the wall I hear Cynthia’s ironic comment to Faith-in-the-bed. “No suggestions? Pity.”
Nate glances at the door then back at his phone, exuding an odd mix of cagey and casual. What’s he doing? I move alongside him and sneak a look at his phone.
My eyes widen. “You’re spying!”
We’re looking at my room. My heart surges. Now I understand what he was doing with the picture frame the other day: he’s installed a web cam. A barely discernible web cam.
I feel a thrill of pleasure—he’s really looking out for me. But what does he expect to see?
We watch as Cynthia picks up Faith-in-the-bed’s hand. She strokes it gently, wrist to fingertips, wrist to fingertips.
Her touch feels like a fly on my skin. I scrub at my hand. If this is her attempt at compassion it’s too little, way too late. We may have been best friends once but, frankly, I’m more interested in the web cam. Where did Nate get it from? Why did he think of using one?
I guess you can take the man out of investigative journalism but you can’t take investigative journalism out of the man.
We see Cynthia’s lips move but her voice, muffled by the noise of the shower, is hard to make out through the wall. Nate presses his ear to the door. I duck my head back into the room.
“Faith,” she says, with a slow shake of her head. “I don’t know how you’re coping. You must feel so . . . vulnerable. Not living but not dying; it must be incredibly frustrating. Particularly for someone like you. Someone so—” she looks off to the left, searching for the right word “—controlled.”
Cynthia continues to stroke Faith-in-the-bed’s hand, and now it’s really getting on my nerves because not only is it an annoying tickle, she’s not sounding genuinely compassionate.
But will Nate discern her tone through the wall? I merge back into the bathroom and watch him watching Cynthia.
With his ear against the door, he listens intently, eyes narrowed, body tense. Even so, I doubt he’s hearing much over the blast of the shower.
Steam wafts around us. On the tiny screen we see Cynthia give Faith-in-the-bed’s hand a final pat-pat-pat then she gently returns it to its resting place. She stands and walks past the webcam on her way to the window. Turns and rests one elbow against the sill, surveying the room. She looks at the ensuite door, then at her comatose friend. When she starts speaking I merge back into the room to listen.
“. . . feel so trapped. All that effort, just to move your finger.” Cynthia pauses, considering. “Everyone’s very excited, of course, so full marks to you for entertainment value. And let’s face it, there’s no show without Punch.”
She saunters back to the bed. “It’s been quite a week, hasn’t it? Don’t worry, though. Not much longer now.”
My stomach plunges. Have the doctors said something to her?
No, they wouldn’t talk to Cynthia. They must’ve spoken to Geoff. And he’ll have told Cynthia.
She sounds quite casual; upbeat, even. Which means it must be good news, right?
Unless she means . . . No. Don’t think it.
Too late. I already did.
Worried now, I leap back into the ensuite and search Nate’s face. He’s frowning too, so I take it he doesn’t know what Cynthia’s referring to, either.
What have the doctors said?
So fast my head reels, I whirl back out. Cynthia’s picked up a magazine and is idly flicking through the pages. She stops at a wedding photo, some celebrity couple I don’t remember, and holds the page up for Faith-in-the-bed. “Look at that dress. What do you think?”
She waits a moment then flips it over and studies the photo herself.
“No,” she concludes. “A bit too meringue.”
She abandons the magazine and sits in the chair again. “I suppose this means you won’t be at the wedding.”
The wedding? Nobody’s mentioned a wedding.
“Such a shame, darling.” She leans
forward and reaches out, smoothing her hand down Faith-in-the-bed’s hair and shoulder.
I shiver. Her touch feels ghostly.
I duck back into the ensuite, hoping the wall might dull the sensation, but it doesn’t.
Her hand moves to my arm. It affects me like fingers down a blackboard. Fine. If I have to feel her touch I may as well hear what she’s saying with it. I merge back through.
“I’ll make sure you’re remembered in the toast to absent friends,” she says. “You’ll be there in spirit, at least.”
She lapses into silence. It isn’t long before she takes out a mirror and checks her makeup. As she smiles at her reflection I check on Nate.
Surveillance momentarily abandoned, he’s hurriedly dousing his head with water; presumably to give the appearance of having showered.
He grabs a towel, scrubs at his head, then checks his phone. Looks in the mirror, finger-combs his hair, re-checks his phone.
Why is he watching so vigilantly? Does he think Geoff’s about to show up and make his move?
My heart jams in my throat. Does he think Cynthia’s about to do Geoff’s dirty work for him?
Surely not.
. . . Unless she’ll gain something by helping him get rid of me.
Geoff wants me out of the way because I’m the wife he’d rather replace. And Cynthia wants me out of the way because . . . I’m competition?
My heart seizes. Crap. It fits.
Hurry, Nate. Check her again. My hands break out in a sweat. What if something happens and Nate misses it? I whip back through so fast my eyes struggle to focus, but all is calm. Cynthia’s lipstick looks perfect, she’s now applying concealer to a miniscule blemish, and the ventilator continues breathing for my body.
I relax, only to rear back in shock as something moves in my peripheral vision. Adrenalin fires through my body. I whirl around and come face to face with—
Gran. In a white, full-length kaftan.
Relief, so close on the heels of panic, renders me jelly-limbed. I sprawl in a messy mass at her feet, giggling. Even to my own ears, I sound borderline hysterical.
She raises an eyebrow at me. “Hello, Faith.”
“Gran,” I gasp, struggling to regain control, “you scared me.”
“If that’s you scared, darling, I’d hate to see you amused.”
I take a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. My laughter subsides. “Boy, am I pleased to see you.”
“Really? Because I make you laugh?”
“No. Because I . . .”
Where to start? Because I feel alone and scared and confused and angry and desperate and panicky and, God help me, I don’t want to die and Geoff scares me and Cynthia confuses me and I need Gran by my side and I was so worried about her and how do I say all of that in a way she’ll even begin to understand?
“I understand,” she says, and I’ve never loved her more.
My eyes fill. I give her a tremulous smile, grateful for once that she can read my thoughts.
She smiles back with love and, yes, understanding. The whole room seems to warm a couple of degrees.
Then Creepy Guy steps out from behind her and my heart races all over again. Gut churning, I slowly get to my feet. He’s escorted her back to see me. Why? What’s going on?
“Gran?” My face feels papier mache-stiff. Please don’t tell me this is goodbye.
She looks down, and I notice she’s wringing her hands. It’s such an un-Gran-like action that my stomach clenches with dread.
I glance at Cynthia. She’s got the photo album open on her knee now, and she’s going through my married life, page by page, making occasional comments to Faith-in-the-bed. But much as I’d love to listen in—who knows what memories it might trigger?—I’m more concerned with Gran. Why is she so unnerved?
I straighten my shoulders and face him. Whatever he’s about to do or say, I just want him to get on with it.
Anxiety churns in my gut. This must be how criminals feel as they await their sentence.
He stares straight through me, as if I’m inconsequential. Then, abruptly, he turns his gaze on Gran, waiting until her eyes meet his. He nods once and reaches into his pocket, extracting a bunch of keys.
That’s when I notice the blue, shimmering light around her. What is it? Some kind of energy field?
Almost of its own volition, my hand reaches towards it. Creepy Guy’s head snaps around and he pins me with his lizard-like stare. I pause mid-reach. His stare intensifies. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I gulp back my fear and ever so slowly withdraw my hand.
He blinks, and we both know he’s given me permission to back off while I still can.
I back off.
For long seconds he continues to stare me down. My pulse flutters in my throat. I’m not sure which is more disconcerting: his stare or his silence.
At last he turns back to Gran.
Without looking at the keys Creepy Guy selects one, then reaches behind her and turns it in some unseen lock.
The blue shimmer collapses in on itself. Gran stretches her arms wide and breathes a sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” she says, giving Creepy Guy a smile so sunny it would bring bears out of hibernation.
His expression remains stony but he inclines his head in acknowledgement.
Gran rubs at her arms, and my heart squeezes tight. They’ve probably had her locked in that shimmer all this time. I don’t want her in any pain, especially on my behalf.
I study her more closely. They’d better not have hurt her. If they’ve hurt her I’ll never forgive myself. Or the Death Council. Outrage sparks and flares. I don’t give a toss who they think they are; if they’ve hurt my gran I’ll make them pay.
Gran glances my way and shakes her head. It’s such a small movement I wonder if I imagined it, but her expression confirms it: she’s warning me.
Stay calm. Stay quiet. Be still.
Almost before I realise she’s put the words in my head, they’re gone. I don’t dare nod to tell her I understand, so I blink. She blinks back.
Meanwhile, Creepy Guy points to Gran’s feet. A golden-red shimmer appears around one ankle. Gran’s face falls. She bites her lip and suddenly seems on the verge of tears.
“What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
Gran meets my gaze and her back stiffens. She shakes her head.
Creepy Guy steps back.
“This is not a full release,” he recites in a monotone. “This is a parole. Virginia Grace Osbourne, you are required to meet all parole conditions for full release to become effective. Even so, full release will not be effective until decreed by the Death Council. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” says Gran.
“You may not at any time discuss any aspect of the afterlife, or the journey thereof, with any living beings. You may not discuss the future in any way, shape or form. You may not engage the services of other spiritual beings to speak or act on your behalf in any of the aforementioned areas. You may not assist any living person—” he pauses to spear me with his cold, hard gaze “—in their life-death journey while they are in a state of consciousness. Any interactions with their subconscious must be non-specific. No reference may be made to their individual life-death journey. Is this clear?”
“Yes,” she says.
Creepy Guy nods. “Failure to abide by these simple rules will result in immediate termination of your parole and transfer to the Death Council Holding Bay. Upon such transfer your parole bracelet will be removed and its data used as evidence in your final hearing.”
I stare at the shimmer at Gran’s ankle. It’s beautiful. Too beautiful to be a shackle, but that’s absolutely what it is.
“Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
He nods. Then, with a long, piercing look at Gran, then me, he disappears.
Chapter Thirty-Five
In the blink of an eye Gran’s white robe is gone, swapped for a funky pair of rainbow-coloured bellbo
ttom pants and a white sleeveless top.
She heaves a deep sigh. “Thank goodness. He’s about as much fun as the Inland Revenue Department. ”
I can’t even muster up a smile. “Oh, Gran. What have they done to you?”
“Nothing.”
I shoot her a disbelieving look.
“Well,” she amends, “nothing that’ll kill me.”
She winks and I can’t help grinning.
The grin slides off my face as I realise that no, they can’t kill her, but they can probably banish her to some dark, god-forsaken hole for all eternity.
She shouldn’t mess with that kind of power.
“Oh, phooey to you,” says Gran, clearly still reading my thoughts. “Sometimes you have to stand up and be counted. I’ve never yet crossed swords with a department I couldn’t trump.”
Yes, but this isn’t any old department. This is the Death Council. God’s Death Council.
I don’t get a chance to make the point, though, because the ensuite door swings open and Nate saunters back into the room.
Gran looks at him then turns to me.
“Oh,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I see you’ve noticed his qualities in my absence.”
Dammit, Gran, yes, I’m blushing. I glare at her. She smiles.
Cynthia glances up from the photo album. “Better?”
Nate responds with a grunt. He wanders to the window and stares out at the persistent rain.
I hope that rain isn’t a bad omen—but this is Day Seven and my omen radar’s on high alert.
Cynthia turns to another page at random.
Nate turns his back on the rain and leans against the windowsill, arms folded.
Cynthia makes a show of studying a photograph.
Nate watches, his face inscrutable. I’m sure Cynthia can feel his eyes on her, but she takes forever to look up and meet his eyes. When at last she does, she shoots him a coy smile, as if to say, ‘Well? Do you like what you see?’
His expression doesn’t change.
She shrugs and returns her attention to the album.
Finally Nate breaks the silence. “How long are you planning on being here?”
She closes the album, sets it down with deliberation, and meets his gaze head-on. “Does my presence bother you?”
The Trouble With Dying Page 25