Geoff exhales heavily. “Right.”
“Faith’s brain activity is still normal,” adds the doctor, “but she’s been through a lot. For now, we need to be patient. Only time will tell whether she regains consciousness. Obviously we’ll keep her on life support in the meantime.”
When he next speaks he’s further away. “I’m sorry. I wish I could give you more, but this is the way it often is with comas. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
The door clicks shut.
Mum’s voice wobbles. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
Tess lets go of my hand and I hear her pitter-patter footfalls on the linoleum.
“What’s life sport?” She tries to repeat the phrase.
There’s a collective intake of breath.
“Daddy?” she asks.
“Oh, my dear sweet girl,” murmurs Mum, and I bet she’s scooped Tess in for a hug.
Geoff’s voice is tight as he answers Tess. “The life support is a machine that helps Mummy breathe.”
“But Mummy’s just sleeping. Why does she need help to breathe?”
Geoff hesitates before answering. “She can’t breathe on her own at the moment, Pumpkin. If she wasn’t on life support she’d probably go to Heaven.”
“Lucky Mummy’s on life sport then,” says Tess, “because she’d be lonely in Heaven. Nan-Nan’s not there anymore. The scary ghost took her away.”
You could slice the atmosphere and serve it up for dessert.
My heart stutters. Is Gran’s parole revoked?
“Christ,” mutters Geoff. “What . . .”
He grinds to a halt.
The room falls silent.
Geoff tries again. “Pumpkin, the doctors know what’s best. They know Mummy needs to be on life support at the moment, and they’ll know when it’s time to turn it off.”
Nate clears his throat. “But Tessabelle, don’t you worry. Nobody’s about to send Mummy to Heaven before she’s good and ready, okay?”
Which possibly isn’t going to please Geoff, but I’m thrilled. Nate has drawn a line in the sand for Geoff, made a promise to me, and reassured Tess—all in one short sentence.
I love him.
Geoff, however, isn’t quite there yet.
“Surely that’s a matter for the doctors to decide,” he grates out, “since we can’t exactly ask Mummy what she thinks? Or has her comatose state escaped you?” He gives an exasperated sigh. “Jesus, Sutherland, I need my kid to deal with this and move on, not play make-believe for the rest of her life.”
“It’s not make-believe!” shouts Tess.
“Stop shouting!” shouts Geoff.
“You stop shouting!”
“Don’t you talk to me like that.”
“Enough!” Mum leaps to her feet, hands raised in stop-signs. “Just . . . enough.” She ends on a sob.
My newly restored hope shrivels and dies. This can’t go on. Before, I could at least see everyone. Now, I don’t even have that. I hope Cynthia rots in Hell. What she’s done to me, and to my family, is flat-out inexcusable.
The shouting has been replaced by crying. Tess, further away now, sobbing as if her wee heart is broken. Mum, a death-grip on my hand, sniffling intermittently. Geoff, still in the room—I can feel his tension—but quiet. Please let him be comforting Tess.
Mum’s got one thing right: enough already. I’m done with this. Let’s end it now so everyone can get on with their lives.
I try to speak, but my tongue, strangely, is a swollen blob of jelly, parched and useless. My throat is Sahara dry. I can’t even get out Tess’s name, let alone give her a full set of instructions to relay. I swallow. It hurts. I bring a hand to my throat—or, at least, I try to. But nothing happens. My whole arm’s frozen.
Frustration builds in my chest. My blood pumps loud in my ears. Why, after days on end stuck on a stupid ceiling trying to work out my new normal, am I now straitjacketed as well as sightless?
If this is God’s idea of an endurance test, I’m over it. You win, God. I’m past fighting. Just let me go.
“Did you see that?” Tess’s voice lurches from grief to excitement in a nano-second.
“What?” asks Nate.
“Look! Her head moved. See? Did you see? Look! She’s turning her head.”
The silence lasts only a moment, then everyone starts babbling at once.
My soul stills. She saw my head move? Really? I’m too scared to breathe in case I jinx it.
Someone strides across the room, then the bedsprings creak—and I feel it. I feel my body sink, just a little, on the left. Not in a second-hand, filtered-through-another-body kind of way, but in a right-here-right-now, just-like-normal way. A back-in-body way.
I try to turn my head whoever is sitting beside me, and I feel that too. I turned my head. And now I’m so excited I can’t drag in a breath even if I want to. Please, after all this, don’t let excitement be my killer.
“Faith?” Nate places a hand on my arm. “Faith, can you hear me?”
I hear him, all right. I hear him, and smell him, and feel him, and love him. I try to smile, but my lips are frail and dry, like autumn leaves. They’ve forgotten what a smile is.
“Pix,” he says, his voice low and urgent, “if you can hear me, move a finger. Any finger.”
How do I move a finger?
The silence is palpable.
I feel Nate’s hand cupping mine. Come on, fingers. But it’s as if I’m some long-forgotten relic from another age, trapped in a block of ice, desperate for a big melt and a new life.
“Come on, Faith.” Geoff stands on the other side of me. “You can do it.”
Sure I can. I just have to . . . wiggle a finger. Easy. How hard can it be? I visualise like crazy, then try to move the pointer finger of my left hand.
This time I feel it myself. I don’t need the excited responses to know.
“Oh Pix,” says Nate, his voice hoarse. “You’re back. You’re back.”
He clasps my hand in his, then bends to kiss it. “Thank you, God.”
I feel his tears on my skin, and I want to kiss his eyes and his tears and his lips and his body and never let go.
Geoff clasps my other hand.
“Faith?” he whispers, and I feel his emotions as if they’re shooting straight up my arm. He’s confused. And relieved. And grieving. I get that. We’ve come to the end of a journey together. In the background I hear Mum and Tess, shrieking, laughing, happy. If I could squeeze Geoff’s hand I would.
But it’s baby steps for me. Readjust to being in my body. Learn how to move, eat, drink. Get ready to live.
My body is stiffer than an overused washboard. Every joint aches. Breathing is a hot shot of brandy. I’m thirsty beyond belief. My eyelids are glued shut, but I take my time, willing them to remember what they’re there for. And, an eon later, I open my eyes and, at long last, I see. My heart is full, and my tear ducts are fully functional.
I’m back.
Chapter Forty-Five
One Year Later . . .
It’s one of those cobalt-skied, white-sails-in-the-harbour days Auckland is famous for. Sure as eggs it’ll be raining before the day is out but, for now, we’re enjoying the sun on our faces and the breeze in our hair.
I head down to the water’s-edge, where Tess and Nate are playing tag in the shallows.
“Who’s for an ice cream?” I call, brandishing two overloaded cones.
“Yay! Me!” Tess races over and bounces up and down on the spot.
I hand her one, then turn to Nate as he snakes an arm around my waist. He brings his lips down on mine in a soft, sensual caress, leaving me instantly weak-kneed and willing.
He smiles against my lips, pulls me into his body, murmurs, “You’re too easy.”
“I know.”
“Is that ice cream mine?” he asks, gently sucking my bottom lip.
I stifle a moan. “Only if you’re good.”
He withdraws slight
ly, raises an eloquent brow.
I hold the ice cream at arm’s length behind me.
He hugs me tight so he can reach for and steal said ice cream. “Oh, I’m good.”
“Really?” I ask, over-casual, but my body betrays me with a shiver of response.
His lips curve in a knowing smile. He releases me and, ridiculously, I feel chilled—but not for long. His gaze, all hot-blooded male, sears me. A pulse kicks up in my groin. My breath hitches.
“Mummy, can we go to the hospital later?” Tess cuts in, reminding us both it’s a family show.
Reluctantly I drag my eyes from Nate to my daughter. “What for?”
“I had a dream about Sister last night. You remember Sister? The dead nurse?”
Nate stills. “Er . . . dead nurse?”
“Like grandmother, like grand-daughter,” I say, giving him a half-smile. Then, to Tess, “You’ve worked out what she’s been waiting for?”
Tess’s eyes sparkle. “Yes. It’s a really special photo, and it’s hidden. But I’ve seen where it is. I need to give it to someone for her.”
“Okay.” But how to keep her safe?
“I think we’ll take Sylvia with us,” I add. Sylvia’s sensitivity to evil will keep us safe. And I like the idea of Sylvia helping Tess on her journey as a psychic.
Tess licks her ice cream. “Yum. Where’s your ice cream, Mummy?”
I chuckle at her white-smeared face and gooey-hair. “I’ll have your leftovers, darling. You’ll never finish that on your own.”
She eats faster.
“You can share mine.” Nate waggles his eyebrows at me and advances with intent.
“Yeah,” says Tess. “Share Dad’s.”
Tess’s unhesitating use of ‘Dad’ brings a tear to my eye. Initially I worried she wouldn’t cope with two father figures in her life, but she’s taken it all in her stride. Geoff is Daddy and Nate is Dad and that’s just the way it is. No big deal.
Tess squeals with laughter. “Look out, Mummy!”
Jerked out of my thoughts, I back away from Nate’s ice cream. If he thinks he’s going to ram it in my face . . .
He reaches me easily and spins me around.
I come up against his chest. “Don’t you dare!”
With a twinkle in his eye Nate takes a large bite of ice cream. Then he plunders my mouth with a hot-and-cold, head-reeling kiss.
“Daddy! Daddy!” calls Tess. “Over here!”
I turn in Nate’s arms to see Geoff approaching across the sand.
“Ice creams, huh?” says Geoff. “Where’s mine?”
I smile at him. “Sorry. I was thinking of your suit.”
Geoff looks down at himself. “Ice cream . . . suit . . . ice cream . . . suit. Hmm.”
He pauses. Looks at Tess, then grins, winks, and shrugs out of his jacket, dropping it in a crumpled heap on the sand.
“Daddy wants an ice cream, Daddy wants an ice cream,” chants Tess.
And Daddy must indeed want an ice cream because now he’s rolled his trouser legs up to his knees and is chasing Tess in circles, looking happier than I’ve seen him in weeks.
My heart swells. No, I don’t love Geoff the way I love Nate, but I count him as a very dear friend and a second father to Tess.
We’ve done a lot of talking this past year, Geoff and I. A lot of apologizing, a lot of forgiving, both of us working towards a common goal: Tess’s happiness. And now . . . well, he’s part of the family.
Nate cups my face in his hands, looks into my eyes. “Happy?”
Over his shoulder Gran suddenly appears, wearing a retro swimsuit and cap and the most outrageous false eyelashes.
I beam at her. You’re back!
Of course. She winks. Where there’s an Osbourne there’s a way.
I look from Nate, to Tess, to Geoff, to Gran, and back to Nate. I breathe deep, enjoying the sun on my face, the sand at my toes, the salt air in my lungs.
“Happy.”
Life is good. And I know it.
THE END
Connect with Maggie
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Also by Maggie Le Page
A Heat Of The Moment Thing
(Keep reading if you would like to try a sample.)
Dear Reader
Thanks so much for reading The Trouble With Dying and for sharing Faith’s journey (and mine).
Is there a sequel? That depends on you! I’ve always been fascinated by the paranormal and the fact that some things can’t be explained by science and logic. If, after reading The Trouble With Dying, you’d like to read more stories with a touch of paranormal, please get in touch and tell me.
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A Heat Of The Moment Thing
By Maggie Le Page
Becky Jordan has had it with relationships. From now on her time and dedication won’t be lavished on her latest Mr. Wrong—or, worse, Mr. Hell-No!—just the dream travel job which has unexpectedly leapt into her lap. Finally, life is looking great.
Unfortunately, not as great as her sizzling-hot, take-charge new boss. Matt Frobisher is everything she doesn't want him to be, but if anyone thinks she'll risk her career on a workplace fling they can think again. No amount of Superman behaviour from him will make her roll over and play Lois.
Her heart, however, doesn't do logical. In desperation she finds herself a Mr Distraction, one with no strings and plenty of appeal. But Mr Distraction also comes with unforeseen complications. Kryptonite complications, like Becky’s sister. And when she shows up there’s only one sure thing: not even Superman can prevent the Disaster Fest that’s about to blow Becky’s life apart.
Chapter One
Feathers of anxiety fluttered in my gut as I took in the busy swimming lanes. Why did I keep putting myself through this? “Liz, I don’t think—”
“No thinking allowed. Forty laps, then coffee. Right?” Her smile sweetened her words but she had that don’t-muck-with-me look in her eyes and, best friend or not, she wasn’t letting me off the hook.
The feathers moved up, nasty tickles of nerves making straight for my throat. “Um . . .”
Liz frowned, cocked her head to one side. “You okay, Becs?”
“I—it’s busy. You know I hate crowded pools.”
She glanced at my lane. “Six swimmers. That’s not bad.”
Only six? I squinted down at the blurry blobs, doing my own head-count. Three swimmers coming at me each lap. It could be worse.
It could be a lot better, too. I always wore my contacts under my goggles. Why, oh why, had I forgotten them? Even with twenty-twenty vision, lane-swimming wasn’t my idea of fun. But short-sighted?
“I’ll come back this evening,” I said.
“Hey.” She squeezed my hand. “You’ll be fine. You’ve been doing this for months now.”
“Yeah, but today I’m half-blind.”
She sighed. “Becs. You can’t back out now. We made a commitment.”
Shee
sh, we were swimming for fitness, not the Olympics.
I cast around for a better excuse as I drew my hair—miraculously straight, thanks to my genius hairdresser—into a ponytail. “I didn’t bring a swimming cap. What if my hair turns green? Or goes back to halo-frizz?” Then, “If I start my new job looking like a freak I’ll blame you.”
“Come on.” Liz made for the fast lane as usual and dived in.
Damn. I faced my blurry, congested lane.
It wasn’t like I really needed to see, right? If I could feel my way through London’s infamous fogs, I could make it down a swimming lane. I plopped into the water, adjusted my goggles, waved a swimmer on. Okay—now. With a nervous glance at the next swimmer I pushed off, doing something approximating freestyle.
Next New Year’s there would be no resolutions, no good intentions, and if I had to drink soda water all night to avoid Liz’s pinkie promises, then so be it. Seriously—swimming? What the hell kind of New Year’s resolution was that?
Warning bubbles fizzed past my cheeks. I lifted my head and stared as some lane-hogging idiot approached in a mess of arms and churned-up water. What was he doing? Oh, for goodness sake . . . butterfly? I held my breath, thought thin and scraped past, earning a poke in the ribs and a clipped ankle.
I switched to backstroke, plunging my annoyance into my strokes.
Get fit, to hell with men, have a life. It had sounded good at the time, but the fitness thing? Big mistake. Even so, lose that resolution and I’d still be winning. Fancy new haircut, fancy new job, and as for asshole Mickey—Mickey who?
Butterfly guy’s next attack was an arm-thunk to the head that knocked my goggles askew and turned my in-breath into an in-water. I floundered, spluttering. No time to rest, though: behind me approached another swimmer, then another. I did a one-handed goggle adjustment and reverted to freestyle, but I’d lost my rhythm. Each breath became a gasp. My legs sank, my arms slowed. Come on. I forced my head down, counting the strokes, kicking faster, regulating my breathing.
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