“I feel sick,” I mutter.
She chuckles, then sobers. Points at the door. “Go. Quickly. Catch up with them and listen.”
Apprehension ripples along my veins. I go.
“. . . not what you think.” Nate flings the words over his shoulder at Brady as he walks.
“Do you know how many times I’ve been told that?” Brady’s tone is dry.
“This time it’s true.”
“Convince me. Answer my questions.”
Nate exhales. Compresses his lips. Slows, allowing Brady to draw level with him. “Fine.”
For a moment they walk in silence.
Brady slants a glance at Nate. “You didn’t tell me Faith dumped you to marry Carson.”
My heart beats faster. I’ve had a flashback of Nate’s return, and one of his birthday flash drive . . . but are there other, darker, memories of him my mind isn’t letting me see?
“That wasn’t a question,” says Nate. Then, relenting, he shrugs. “What’s to tell?”
“How did it make you feel?”
Nate stops walking and glares at his friend. “Fuck, John. It was my first offshore assignment. And when I got back the woman I loved was married to someone else. How do you think I felt?”
“Angry?” Brady faces Nate. Pauses. Watches closely. “Angry enough to retaliate?”
Nate’s face darkens. He steps closer to Brady, eyes flashing, body tensed.
Brady raises an eyebrow but doesn’t back down. To all appearances he’s entirely relaxed, but something about the way he’s standing tells me he’s anything but. He’s fired a shot and he’s ready.
Nate pauses, breathing heavily. One second, two, three. His eyes narrow. He slows his breathing, flexes his fingers, looks skyward.
Then, thankfully, he backs off.
He shoots Brady a wry smile. “Screw you too, pal.”
Brady, chuckling, joins him.
They reach the door to the stairs and as Brady holds it open, my invisible tether jerks me to a halt.
Nate enters the stairwell. “Look, it happened. Shit does. We moved on.”
“Except sometimes we don’t.” Brady’s tone is light, contradicting the weight of his words.
He continues speaking as they take to the stairs, but now I’m straining to hear. “You know the score. I’m going to need a statem—”
And the door clicks shut, leaving me more confused than ever.
# # #
I return to my room to find Sylvia there, holding two cups of coffee and looking rather bewildered.
“Where’s he got to?” she murmurs.
She sets one cup on the windowsill and sits down next to Faith-in-the-bed with the other. I watch from my sanctuary near the ceiling.
“Faith,” she says, “I feel your emotion. You’re confused. Confused and angry and, yes—” she nods “—very upset.”
She pauses. With her free hand she strokes Faith-in-the-bed’s forearm.
And that’s when the grief I’ve been muzzling finally breaks free. How could Nate do this to me? He loves me. I know he does. I’ve been in his head, read how he feels, felt his lovemaking.
It hurts to breathe. I stare down at my comatose body, the remains of my life, and it’s as if I’m looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope. It’s miles away, fairyland tiny, not real.
Only this is real.
My breath comes in short, shallow gasps.
“I’m here for you, Faith,” says Sylvia. “Talk to me. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
How can I talk to Sylvia about this? Nate is her son.
“Nate,” murmurs Sylvia. She glances around, as if perhaps he’s returned, but he hasn’t. She thought of him because of me.
I slam my mind closed.
Head to one side, she listens. Frowns. Sighs.
She stands. “I’ll be back soon, dear. I need to check up on Nathan.”
I wait, not even daring to breathe, until she leaves the room. Then let it whoosh out in a hiccupy sob. How could I have read Nate so wrong? Yes, he loved me; I read that bit right. But I stopped reading, and I missed the bit where his love mutated into hate.
My chest aches with the pain of betrayal.
“Faith, are you all right?” asks Gran.
I look at her and the reality of it all hits me afresh. That’s my gran talking to me. My dead gran. The ache in my chest grows and grows, a great bulbous ball of pressurized emotion that threatens to implode. Why did I believe any of this? None of it’s real. It never has been. I’m not real. The real me is down there in a coma, about to die, and I’m just hanging around up here, a figment of my own imagination, nothing more than vapour, waiting for the inevitable.
“No, Faith,” says Gran, almost in an undertone. “That’s not true.”
Did I really think I’d find a way back to my body? Spring back to life? Turn private investigator? Find my own freaking murderer, for God’s sake? Seriously?
“Faith.” Gran’s face is stricken. “Don’t do this.”
“Do what?” I round on her. “I’m in love with a man who’s wanted me dead for years. How could I be so stupid? I don’t deserve another shot at life. I didn’t learn a single thing in this one.”
I draw in a painful breath, gulp back a sob.
Faith’s vitals are getting worse, according to that bloody beeping machine, but you know what? I’m past caring. What’s left to care for?
Tess.
Oh God, my wee girl. And now I really am crying; full, gut-wrenching sobs.
I was so sure my husband was trying to kill me, and all because of some half-baked feeling. No substance behind it, just guesswork. Because, let’s face it, I have no real knowledge of my pre-coma life. All I have to draw on is the odd brief glimpse of a life once lived, and random conversations and emotional outbursts I’ve witnessed in here. I should never have assumed ‘adulterous’ went hand in hand with ‘murderous’.
“Darling, please stop crying.”
I do my best, but it’s as if my body—soul, whatever it is—is no longer my own.
“Look at me.” Gran comes close, forcing me to focus on her. I manage to haul my sobs back to body-shuddering, ragged-breathed sniffles.
“Listen, Faith.” She looks nervously around before continuing. “Now more than ever, you must listen to your intuition.”
She says nothing else, but I hear her voice in my head.
You’re in danger, yes, but you can get through this.
I notice movement in the corner of my eye.
Creepy Guy. He must’ve been eavesdropping. Why else would he appear just as Gran started telling me something useful?
I shoot her a bug-eyed look. She compresses her lips at me but says nothing. Even her thoughts are gone.
Then, from the doorway, Sylvia speaks.
“Faith, you’re in danger, yes. But you can get through this.”
I gape at her. Then ping-pong my gape back to an impassive Gran.
Gran cautions me with a barely perceptible, ever-so-brief widening of her eyes.
Creepy Guy watches from his usual spot in the corner, but Gran’s mouth is firmly shut. It’s Sylvia doing the speaking, and Sylvia’s very much alive so he can’t accuse her of interference.
Clever. I slant Gran a glance. Her expression doesn’t change but her eyes sparkle. She’s always loved getting one over the authorities.
Sylvia walks over to the chair next to Faith-in-the-bed and sits, resting her hands palm-up on her thighs in a meditative pose. She closes her eyes and breathes in-two-three, out-two-three.
“I hoped to receive a message from you, Faith,” she says. “I’ve had some success contacting comatose patients before. But it seems instead I have a message for you.”
She pauses, breathes deeply again, then continues speaking. “This spirit wants you to know we all have feelings, and it’s all right to feel. But don’t emote. Ground yourself. Your intuition is strong. Let it guide you.”
Another pause. “
Can you take this message, Faith?”
I sure can. But can I make sense of it? Not so much.
Give it time. Gran’s voice rings clear in my head.
I rebut with the panicky thought, I don’t have time!
“You are emotionally wrought,” says Sylvia. “That’s understandable, dear.”
The room blurs. I swipe away my tears.
“But,” she continues, “I’m being told you mustn’t allow your emotions to sabotage the progress you’ve made.”
I look at Gran, and the love in her eyes tells me, whatever happens, I’m not alone. Not really.
“Trust your instincts,” says Sylvia. “Know your enemies.”
Which isn’t as easy as it sounds.
Her eyes fling open. She looks at Faith-in-the-bed and frowns.
“Why?” she asks. “I need clarification.”
So do I, but when I turn back to Gran she’s gone. Dissolved. And taken Creepy Guy with her.
“Who does she mean, Sylvia?” I ask.
Sylvia’s eyes flick my way, and I’m sure she’s heard. She pauses. Looks at the space where Gran so recently stood. Pauses again, head to one side.
And then her face falls. Sorrow etches her features.
At last, with a resigned sigh, she nods. Then she wipes her flattened hands against each other—one, two, three, as if swiping off cobwebs.
Standing, she collects her bag. At the door she stops and turns. And although she looks over the room with something approaching a smile, it’s a smile that oozes more sadness than hope, one that reminds me heartbreakingly of Nate.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It’s Geoff. He’s returned, and there’s no sign of his earlier rage. Probably because there’s no sign of Nate.
Geoff leans against the door, head bowed, as if trying to catch his breath. Or some sleep.
Poor man. Why did I ever think he was evil? He’s just stretched too many ways. Selfish, granted, but he’s also plain, flat-out stressed. And is it any wonder? His wife’s lying there only a hair’s-breadth from death, and he has a grieving kid to worry about, bills to pay, a business to run, and an Ex who’s been stalking his family for years.
Geoff straightens, takes a deep breath and enters my room. “Hi, Faith.”
A lump burns in my throat. What do you say to the husband you should have appreciated, should have loved, but didn’t? The husband you can’t imagine sharing a home with, much less a bed. The husband who no longer hears you but to whom you owe the biggest apology the world has ever heard.
“Hi, Geoff.”
He sits next to the bed and reaches out a tentative hand. Withdraws it again, as if touching his wife is a privilege reserved for others.
Do it, Geoff. Hold my hand. This time I’ll try and enjoy it for what it is: a husband holding his wife. No resentment, I promise. No ill-conceived presumptions, no static-y interference.
But even as I think it, I’m wishing it was Nate here, holding my hand, warming my skin.
I hate myself. I hate myself for loving the man who put me in this place. Why can’t I just switch off the love?
“I’m sorry,” I say. And I am. I’m sorry for so much I don’t know where to begin.
I cry but, of course, Geoff doesn’t hear. Nobody does. Not even Gran, because she—taking Creepy Guy with her—has given me some alone time.
I’ve never felt my aloneness more keenly.
Geoff’s touch doesn’t help. Husband or not, his touch means nothing. He evokes no joy, no love, not even mild affection in me. Right now, watching his slumped shoulders, his shadowed face, I feel pity. But pity is no emotion on which to base a marriage.
Geoff eventually rouses himself and, spotting the photo album at the end of the bed, retrieves it. He sits back down and opens it at a random page.
“Tess was adamant we should bring this album in,” he tells Faith-in-the-bed. “She seemed to think you needed it.”
“Not that you’d be able to actually see it.” A smile flits across his face as he studies a photo. “Still, she’s enjoying having it here.”
He chooses another page and I watch his changing expressions as he takes in the images of his—our—family life.
I move closer, desperate to see them myself, then stop. My stomach tingles. My throat dries. It’s like job interview jitters—only worse, because I’m about to see me in a job I already have.
My gaze fixes on the album. In there are the visual reminders I need of my family. Not some formal, posed, studio shot like the one I saw at home; but a book full of special family moments, captured in all their ungainly, unaffected spontaneity.
It’s as if I’m stuck to the spot.
Well? What am I waiting for?
I bite my lip. So much has happened, so much has changed. Will I like what I see?
Do I even want to see?
Geoff turns the page. His eyes soften as he touches a photo.
Curiosity conquers fear. I cover the remaining distance and look over his shoulder. It’s me. A heavily pregnant me, with Geoff at my side. It must’ve been soon after we met.
He flicks further through the album, stopping at a family selfie. We both chuckle. Our faces are upturned and laughing. A giraffe looms behind us, looking for all the world as if it’s posing for the shot too, but a young Tess isn’t interested. She’s doing her best to wriggle out of Geoff’s arms.
“Nelly! Nelly!” Her favourite animal. Totally disinterested in the giraffe, she’s straining to see the next enclosure.
I grin at Geoff. “Guess she’s spotted the elephant, then.”
She escapes, triumphant, out of Geoff’s arms and makes a beeline for the object of her attention.
“How can legs that small move so fast?” he marvels as we jog to catch up with her.
We reach our wee cherub, and as he swoops her up in his arms my heart expands until it’s full to bursting.
“Thank you, Geoff,” I murmur. God knows he has his shortcomings, but he gave me Tess and for that he’ll always have my gratitude.
Another page and we’re attending some black-tie event or other, Geoff all James-Bond-esque in tuxedo and me resplendent in a full-length, figure-hugging gown. We look every bit the perfect couple—except for our body language. His eyes are cold, and I’m angled away from him.
“I really don’t see the point.” I sigh. “All I’ll do is stand there looking like your accessory. And Tess needs us here. She’s anxious about us both going out.”
“All the more reason to go. Get her used to it.” He stands behind me, his hands on my hips, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “You’ll enjoy it. You’ll get to meet new people.”
I turn and face him. “I’ll hate it and you know it.”
He releases me. “You will if you’re that determined.”
Teeth gritted, I turn back to my reflection and twist my hair into a bun. “I hate crowds, I hate making small-talk, and I hate abandoning our daughter.”
“This isn’t about Tess.” Geoff’s expression is cold in the mirror. “It’s about you. You’re a god-damn ice queen.”
“And you’re so busy schmoozing with the rich and famous,” I fire back, viciously stabbing pins in my hair, “you’re only half a father.”
“Take that back. My schmoozing is what keeps us in food and clothes.”
I wrench my clutch purse off the bed and march out the door. “I’ll take back nothing.”
Heart pounding, I return to the present. Geoff’s looking at a profile shot of me, taken against a glorious sunset background. I recognise that view from somewhere. Where?
Of course. I’m on our balcony. My stomach drops. A shiver runs through me. The balcony.
Geoff blows out his cheeks, possibly thinking the same, but he doesn’t turn the page.
I look at myself more closely. I seem . . . pensive. Sad.
“That’s a beautiful view,” says Geoff with a grin, his double-entendre clear.
“Don’t.” I keep my gaze on the sunset, as i
f its magic might somehow fix this.
It can’t, of course. I sigh, dreading what I’m about to do. “We need to talk.”
“Right.” He carefully caps the camera lens, places the camera on the balcony table. Approaches me, gently rubs my arms. “What’s up?”
I inhale, searching for strength. Exhale and look into his eyes. “We’re up, Geoff.”
He blinks.
“It’s over.” I shrug. “We’re not working. You know it, I know it. It’s been this way for months. Years.”
His hands drop from my arms.
“Surely you see that?”
He frowns. His mouth opens, closes again.
“Geoff, there’s no shame in this. It’s just the way it is. We married fast, had Tess, and never had time to become an ‘us’.”
He looks past me at the red-stained skyline. “Work’s been busy. Maybe if I spent more . . .”
“No. This isn’t about work. It’s about us not being good for each other, and me saying ‘enough’.”
I’m surprised at the feeling of strength surging through me, now I’ve finally said it.
He meets my gaze. “I thought we could make it work. We just needed time.”
“It’s nobody’s fault. It just is.”
It just is.
I wait, hoping Geoff will give me another photo and another flashback to fill in more of my story. But he doesn’t. He speaks instead.
“You were never happy in our marriage, were you? Not really.”
He sighs, closes the photo album, sets it gently to one side. “I knew you weren’t in love with me, but that was okay. We got on well, and that’s more than a lot of couples can say.”
He pauses, thinks about it.
“No huge fireworks, but everything was easy. It just . . . worked.” He exhales, leans back in the chair, contemplates the ceiling. “Until it didn’t.”
“Geoff,” I say, “I’m sorry.”
I’m not even sure what I’m sorry for, but I feel like I owe him an apology. Maybe for not loving him, or for hurting him by leaving—not that I can remember how I felt, let alone how he reacted. Maybe it’s guilt over thinking he was my killer. Maybe there’s a whole witch’s cauldron bubbling with stuff we’ve put each other through, and now’s the time to wash it away before it poisons what’s left of our lives.
The Trouble With Dying Page 27