“I’ve been talking to Mummy,” continues Tess, “and she says someone pushed her off our balcony.”
My breath catches. Crikey. What’s my husband’s mistress going to think of that?
Cynthia’s head snaps around. Her face pales beneath the makeup. She stares at Tess. “What?”
“Someone pushed Mummy over the balcony.” Tess looks down at her hands, pulls on a finger, a frown creasing her brow. She looks back up at Cynthia. “Why would anyone do that?”
Cynthia’s eyes look ready to ping right out of her head.
“Good grief, Tess.” She gives a brittle laugh, shakes her head. “Honey, you can’t go around saying that sort of thing. You can say it to me, obviously, but don’t say that to anyone else, okay? People might think you’re telling lies. And you know what happens to little girls who lie, don’t you?”
Tess seems to retreat inside herself a little. She shakes her head.
“They get their mouths washed out with soap. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”
Tess’s mouth wrinkles with distaste. “I’m not lying, Auntie Cynth, I promise. Mummy told me. And I heard Nan talking to Daddy, too.”
Cynthia guides Tess over to the bed. Perches her on the edge and sits in the chair opposite. Regards her steadily. “And did any of them say who might have done such a horrid thing?”
Tess bites her lip, shakes her head again.
This time Cynthia’s laugh is genuine. It reaches her eyes, lighting up her face, giving her an almost joyful air.
“Oh, honey.” Cynthia leans forward, looking directly into Tess’s eyes. “It’s hard. Your mum’s in a coma and you’re trying to explain it all away in your head. I understand. You must miss her terribly. But the good news is: I’m here. We’re going to be fine. You can think of me as your other Mummy, okay?”
Tess’s eyes skitter left and right. She clenches her hands tightly together in her lap.
“Okay?” repeats Cynthia, more firmly.
“Okay,” whispers Tess.
Her eyes fill, and it’s just as well Cynthia gives her shoulder a squeeze because if she’d made another of her tough love comments I’d have seriously considered violence.
Tess dashes away a tear. “Auntie Cynth, we need to look out for baddies. Because what if the police don’t find Mummy’s baddie? He might come and hurt her again. And I think if Mummy gets hurt again—” Tess’s wee chin trembles “—she’ll be dead.”
Cynthia’s expression is appropriately serious, but she looks like she’s about to break into laughter as she says, “Right. Look out for baddies. Okay.”
Like sun breaking through the rainclouds, Tess’s face suddenly clears. “I know! We can ring that detective and ask him to stay with Mummy and protect her from baddies.”
This time Cynthia does laugh. “Well, we could, but Detective Brady is a very busy man. I’m sure he won’t have time to sit around talking to himself all day while your mum just sleeps.”
Tess swings back to Cynthia. “Please, Auntie Cynth?”
“And what, precisely, would you want to tell him?”
Silence.
Tess looks my way, her eyes big pools of uncertainty.
“Sorry, darling,” I say. “It’s a great idea, but we don’t really have anything new to tell him.”
Nothing I can tell her, anyway. If she finds out Uncle Nate is the baddie who wants me dead, it’ll rock her world. It’s a world that’s been rocked enough.
Cynthia inspects her flawless French-tipped nails, then eyeballs Tess. “Do we know who pushed Mummy? Surely we must. I mean, if Mummy is telling you so much, she should be able to tell you who the baddie is, too.”
Tess glances my way again and my heart splinters. She is literally wringing her hands over this.
“Have you seen someone hurting Mummy?” continues Cynthia. “Or heard someone saying they hate her or wish she was dead? Is there anything you can tell the police? Anything at all?”
“No,” says Tess in a small voice.
“Then maybe we . . .”
Cynthia’s words wash over me. Has Nate tried to hurt me? I don't remember—but I need to, because this is important, right? This is how the cops will pin it on him. Profile, history, motivation, etcetera.
Which means that in order to protect myself and get Nate behind bars, I have to do two things today: a) retrieve my memories, and then b) tell the police.
My heart sinks. I only know one way to do both tasks, and that’s to wake up. But to wake up I need to avoid being killed. Yet to avoid being killed I need to wake up.
It’s a Catch-22 situation. There’s no way out. I’m screwed.
# # #
Nate’s back, and although my heart does a little flippety flop as he walks in the room, it’s more fish-out-of-water than loving-that-man.
Okay, maybe it’s a bit of both, but I’m working on that.
Tess, who has always idolised her beloved Uncle Nate, has no such conflict. Her face lights up as she sees him.
“Uncle Nate!” She leaps to her feet and throws herself into his arms.
Their connection has always filled me with warm fuzzies, but today it gives me cold pricklies. This man has deliberately involved himself with my family, over several years, and for one clear purpose, apparently: to kill me.
Nate returns the hug, then ruffles her hair. “Just the girl I wanted to see. How was school?”
“Great.”
“I bet. You and your friends will have had a lot to catch up on.”
He meets Cynthia’s eyes over Tess’s head and acknowledges her with a brief smile, more a flattening of the lips than anything. They’re clearly not bosom buddies. Maybe Cynthia saw Nate’s dark side from the start, when all I could see was the guy I’d loved since childhood.
“Cynthia,” he says, “I just overheard Doctor Thingame talking to Faith’s nurse. Sounds like they’ve done some tests and the results are good.”
“Oh?” Cynthia looks down at her hands, then back up at Nate. “You’re sure they were talking about Faith?”
“Yep. And she’s on the mend. Great news.”
“Brilliant.” Cynthia gives him a closed-mouth smile, even less enthused than the smile he gave her. They’re barely tolerating each other.
“Yay!” Tess bounces in front of Nate. “Mummy’s getting better?”
“Slowly but surely, yes.” He grins at her exuberance. “So anyway, Squirt, I was thinking we could catch a movie. Unless you’re too tired after such a busy day, of course.”
Tess opens her eyes owl-wide. “I’m not tired.”
“No? Think you’d last a whole movie without snoring?”
She giggles. “I don’t snore. Nan’s the one who snores.”
He bends close and lowers his voice. “Best we don’t invite her, then.”
He checks his watch. “Well, Squirt, how about it? If we go now we could be there for the four-thirty session.”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
Nate looks at Cynthia. “Does that work for you? I can drop her back to Geoff’s place afterwards.”
Cynthia purses her lips. Then meets Tess’s pleading eyes and relents. “You’d like that, Tess?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, then.” She smiles at Tess. “I’ll tell Geoff. It shouldn’t be a problem,” she adds to Nate.
“Yay!” cheers Tess, jumping up and down beside her beloved uncle. “Let’s go!”
She tugs on his arm and, chuckling, he allows himself to be pulled towards the door.
Tess looks over her shoulder at Nate. “Can I choose the movie?”
He raises an eyebrow. “As long as it’s not R-rated.”
Nate pauses to talk logistics with Cynthia. She gives him Geoff’s address so he can drop Tess home after the movie.
“Are we getting popcorn?” interrupts Tess.
“Mmm, I don’t know,” teases Nate.
“Pleeeeze.”
He gives an affectionate smile. “Okay. Let’s share a t
ub.”
“Yay!” Tess jumps with delight, then grabs his hand and hauls him out the door.
“Speaking of tubs,” he says, “did your mum rearrange the tubs and planters on the balcony recently?”
Although he’s directed it at Tess, I know it’s meant for me. Tension flickers along my veins. Is this his way of trying to make me think ‘accident’ again?
“Tess,” I say, “I don’t remember. Do you?”
She shrugs, shakes her head.
“Never mind,” he says. “It’s not important. Last one to the lifts is an ugly toad.”
Tess runs.
“Have fun,” I call out, and Tess grins over her shoulder at me.
Nate follows her gaze but it’s clear he still can’t see me—thank goodness.
He fast-walks after Tess, affection in his eyes at her excited wave, and I’m left with the disturbing thought that I’ve just let my daughter go off with my murderer. Alone.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Cynthia sits watching Faith-in-the-bed. She stays like that for so long it begins to feel creepy. Why isn’t she speaking or doing her make-up or something?
She picks up her coffee, her umpteenth for the day, and takes a couple of delicate sips. Holding the cup up, she trails a French-tipped nail up then down the side, scoring two precise, parallel grooves in the polystyrene.
“Well, Faith,” she says, admiring her lines. “Here we are, then.”
I glide closer, close enough that I can see the mascara on her carefully curled lashes. Who is she? What makes her tick? I’m still struggling with the idea of us having been best friends. We seem so different. She’s so . . . out for herself.
She flips open a pocket-sized mirror and reapplies her lipstick.
What is it about her? What’s our friendship actually based on? What do we have in common? Aside from Geoff, obviously.
She sips her coffee, shudders. “God, I hate instant. Still. It’s a small price to pay.”
“For what?” I ask.
She doesn’t hear, of course.
“Good question,” says Gran, doing her usual appearing-out-of-nowhere trick.
I respond in my usual jump-like-it’s-fright-night manner.
“What?” Gran’s tone is suddenly frustrated.
I turn and, sure enough, Creepy Guy is with her, stern-faced and silent.
Gran glares at him. Lesser beings would sink to their knees under a glare like that, but not him. He doesn’t even blink.
“I’m not helping,” protests Gran. “I’m supporting. Cheering Faith on. Being there for her.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Not that you’d understand,” she mutters.
“So, Faith,” says Cynthia. “How are things going for you? Nice and peaceful?”
She smiles at her own joke.
Gran’s brows draw close. Her lips purse. She turns back to Creepy Guy.
“She—” Gran stabs an accusing finger Cynthia’s way “—doesn’t know what it means to be there for someone, either. Maybe you two are related.”
Creepy Guy’s face could be chiselled out of stone.
Gran’s eyes flash. “How about I just leave, then? Is that what you want? That we float around up here for eternity doing no good at all? What is Heaven coming to? That’s what I want to know.”
She waits, then loses patience and whirls away from him. Stops, closes her eyes, breathes deep, and forces her balled-up hands to relax. Looks hopefully at Creepy Guy.
He returns her gaze with frog-like stillness. Waiting for his prey to make a mistake.
“Fine. Have it your way.” Gran shoots me an apologetic glance, blows me a kiss, and disappears.
Cynthia, unaware of the ghostly byplay, keeps chatting to Faith. “You said you needed a holiday. Does this count?”
For a moment I think she’s trying to be funny—until I see her eyes, that smirk.
“Then again,” continues Cynthia, “you’re your own worst enemy. Always so O.T.T. about being the perfect mum. Home-cooked meals, all that baking, floors so clean you could eat off them.” She rolls her eyes. “The cleaning. Mother of the God-damn Year, that’s you.”
She shakes her head.
I bite my lip. My heart kdonks. I don’t think that’s a compliment.
She leans forward. “Did it ever occur to you that nobody gives a shit about the state of your floors?”
Definitely not a compliment. Worse: I recognise it. My throat closes over. I glance around the room, remembering Tess’s leaves on the bed, her cards on the floor, Nate’s discarded towel . . . It’s exactly as she says. I must be one of those clean freaks. A dirt-phobic, clutter-phobic cow. I probably sanitise the bloody doorknobs.
Cynthia crushes the cup in her hand, a nuisance disposed of in one easy movement. She stands and takes it to the rubbish bin, returning via the life support equipment. She slows, runs a finger over the monitor. Hesitates momentarily then taps the screen.
My heart skips a beat. What’s she doing? She shouldn’t be touching that.
Cynthia smiles, nods, taps a couple more times, then shifts her attention to the ventilator. “I must say, I don’t know how you put up with the racket in this room.”
“Well, I kind-of need it to stay alive,” I say, more than a little freaked out by her sudden interest in the equipment.
I’m relieved when she moves back to the bed.
“You’re looking very peaky there, Faith. Not getting enough sleep?” She tinkles a laugh. “Or are you worried about darling little Tess? ’Cause we mustn’t forget her.”
Her voice has a snaky, school bully ring to it. I can’t believe I ever liked this woman.
“She’s a Little Miss Drama Queen, that one. Mollycoddled for far too long. It’s time she learned to shut up.”
Indignance bubbles. Tess has a mum on life support and a dad who’s more absent than present. Mollycoddled? Hardly. She might get a bit rowdy and forget this is a hospital from time to time, but she’s a kid. I’m glad she forgets.
“I like her chatter,” I say, stiff-lipped. “She’s full of life.”
“If she’s going to live with me . . .”
It’ll be hell. It’ll be hell for everyone, but especially for Tess. Which is why I need to hurry up and wake up. And why Cynthia needs to get out of our lives.
She sits down. “Enough about Tess. That’s not why I’m here. There are things we need to discuss, you and I.”
Foreboding ripples in my gut.
“It’s time you knew, Faith.”
Oh, here we go. She’s going to admit she’s having an affair with Geoff. Will she beg forgiveness? Swear nothing happened until Geoff and I split?
All those late nights ‘working’ . . . She makes me sick.
She slits her eyes at Faith-in-the-bed. “You. Make. Me. Sick.”
Hang on—what? I frown. How can I make her sick? I’m not even conscious.
“You’ve always known how to milk a situation, haven’t you?”
If she thinks lying in a coma is milking it, she’s nuts.
“You and your oh-woe-is-me voice, your whoops, how could I be pregnant?”
My heart skips a beat, then hurries to catch up.
Her face twists. “So you got knocked up. So what? Deal with it. But you milked it for all it was worth, acting like you were the Virgin fucking Mary. No way could you be pregnant. How would you cope? You’d be ruined. Blah blah. What a palaver! Everything except the fucking stage crew. You treated it like the end of the world.”
I did? If it was unexpected I suppose I might feel . . .
No. I wouldn’t be like that. I’d be thrilled if I found out I was pregnant.
Unless . . .
My hands grow clammy. I swallow. Unless the father didn’t want it.
She leans forward in the chair. “But did you have to take Geoff down with you?”
My throat tightens. What is she saying? That Tess was an accident, and neither Geoff nor I wanted her?
Sh
ame curls my toes, clenches my fists. How could I not want my own flesh and blood? That beautiful, life-loving girl.
I’m not sure I want to hear any more painful truths. I look at the door. Maybe I should leave.
Cynthia stands, hands on hips, and glares at Faith-in-the-bed. “You’re such a selfish bitch. You ruined Geoff’s life. You arm-twisted the poor bastard into marriage, and you weren’t even interested in him.”
My mind races. If I wasn’t interested in him, why did I sleep with him, let alone spend seven years with him?
“And what was he thinking?” she adds. “Good grief, you were so not his type. So what if you fell pregnant? It happens all the time.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. And I remember.
The blood draining from my face.
Through the doorway, the celebrant shuffling papers. Our papers.
Pausing at the threshold, steadying myself against the doorframe.
“Are you all right?” Geoff, at my side, regarding me with concern.
No, I’m not all right. I’m dizzy. I’m trapped. I’m hot and huge and cumbersome and I wish I wasn’t here.
“I’m fine.”
Holding a soothing hand to my overgrown belly, forcing myself forward.
Cynthia’s voice brings me back to the present.
“. . . was everything he wanted, and you knew I wanted him. We would’ve been perfect together. We are perfect together. We would’ve been together for years by now if you hadn’t done your little-girl-lost act on him.”
Her face contorts. “You ruined everything.”
I try to slot myself into the picture she’s painted, and I just can’t make me fit. Yes, I was pregnant when we married; that flashback just proved it. But the woman she’s describing—cunning, deceitful, disloyal—isn’t the way I think of myself. It’s not the way I feel.
Desperate, perhaps. But surely not to the point of hurting the people I love?
“You should never have married him,” she continues. “He didn’t want it, but you wouldn’t listen, would you? You flogged that marriage like the dead horse it was, making muffins and dress-up clothes and ordering everyone about and cleaning like the fucking housework fairy. Do you know just how much your cleaning pissed Geoff off? You drove him away. You drive everyone away. You’re such a control freak. But for God’s sake don’t change anything because you chose it so it must be perfect.”
The Trouble With Dying Page 29