Make a Christmas Wish

by Julia Williams

  I’m determined to get them to notice me. Adam can’t be moving on with someone else already, he can’t.

  At least I’m free of that damned car park. It’s immensely liberating to be able to go places now, although according to Malachi there are rules about everything. I can pass through doors and windows; I have learned about switches and banging doors shut, but I’m still having trouble levitating stuff. It’s pretty damned exhausting if I’m honest. Making people notice you when you’re dead turns out to be very hard, but Malachi says that’s because most people aren’t susceptible to listening to spirits, so they tend to ignore them. All I know is I wish right now that Adam wasn’t the sceptical type.

  The day after my ineffectual attempts to haunt the house, I follow Joe to the shops. I’m glad to see Adam’s letting him have some independence, now he’s 17. It was something we argued about a lot. Adam was worried about how Joe was going to cope when he grew older. I was too, but I saw it as my job to make sure Joe could lead an independent life. He’s awkward round people, sure, but he’s clever, and the college I got him into has expertise in dealing with kids with his problems. Because Joe struggles with exams, he’s doing BTechs in Astronomy, Physics and Maths. My dearest wish was that he could get into college and do a degree. I know he dreams of being the next Brian Cox. ‘Who knows, Joe,’ I used to say to him. ‘Reach for the stars. Everything’s possible if you believe it to be.’

  I follow Joe to a cheerful cosy little café on the high street, my heart sick with longing. I wish he could see or hear me. It kills me that he can’t. I love this café; the people here know him, and automatically produce a cup of hot chocolate the way he likes it, with cream and marshmallows on top. We used to go there together, and I’m pleased the staff still look after him. Joe always gets agitated if things don’t follow a certain order, and though he’s better at managing the anxiety he feels now he’s older, he still finds it difficult.

  He sits down by the window, and I sit opposite him, not sure if he’s aware of me, but feeling happy to be near him. He looks well, and, for Joe, reasonably content, though it’s always hard to tell.

  I can’t help myself. I lean over and touch his hand – Joe still doesn’t like a lot of physical contact, but as he’s got older he’s got better about the odd touch here and there, which is something I’ve always been grateful for – but he moves it away and rubs it as if something is itching him, and he stares right through me.

  ‘Joe,’ I want to say, ‘can you hear me?’ but can’t bring myself to. The disappointment of him not answering would be too crushing.

  Joe’s looking a bit agitated now, constantly scanning the crowds of Christmas shoppers marching past outside and looking at his watch. It’s a cold wintry day, and the café is packed, the windows steamed up.

  ‘Eleven thirty-two and ten seconds, oh dear,’ he’s muttering. ‘Eleven thirty-three point 0 five.’

  He looks at his watch again – it’s a chunky ugly thing I bought him a couple of Christmases back, but he likes it because it has second hands on it. Time is vital to Joe. He hates people being late. I can feel his distress as the time slips to 11.35 and fifteen seconds. He’s clearly waiting for someone and they are late.

  I can feel his panic rising, and without thinking about it I slip into the seat next to him and say, ‘It’s all right Joe. Deep breaths.’ I whisper, as I would if I were still alive and he could hear me. Though the episodes are rarer these days, when Joe’s distressed he can get a bit agitated and restless if things don’t work out the way he wants. Sometimes he just paces about muttering to himself, but occasionally he throws things. I don’t want him to do that here with no one to fight his corner. I can remember too many times when he has in the past. ‘Remember, Joe,’ I say, ‘not everyone is as clever with time as you are. Be patient.’

  ‘Patient,’ Joe repeats.

  What? Can he hear me? I feel a deep surge of joy.

  ‘Joe, it’s Mum,’ I say. ‘Can you hear me?’

  But there’s no reply as he’s distracted by someone flying through the door, saying, ‘Joe, I’m so sorry I got held up.’

  I withdraw in disappointment. I was so sure I’d made a connection.

  ‘You’re five minutes and thirteen seconds late,’ he says accusingly, and a pretty girl of around 17 with long fair hair slides into a seat opposite us. She’s dressed warmly in a thick hoody, scarf, gloves, leggings and boots.

  Wait a minute.

  A girl?

  When did Joe start meeting girls? What else have I missed in the last year? I’m cursing my stupidity for not having listened to Malachi at the beginning, and escaped the car park. I shouldn’t have let all that time go by.

  ‘I should have synchronized my watch,’ says the girl, taking off her gloves and smiling. She has a nice reassuring smile, and it seems to be enough to diffuse his tension.

  ‘You should have,’ he agrees. He leans over awkwardly and pecks her on the cheek.

  The girl smiles, and says, ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘I have to buy presents,’ says Joe with the lopsided grin I have always adored. It makes me feel happy just seeing it. ‘Look. I have a list.’ He proudly presents a scrap of paper with an intense and detailed-looking list on it: Dad, Emily, Caroline, Granny.

  ‘I don’t need to see my present, remember?’ says the girl – Caroline? – ‘It’s a surprise.’

  ‘Yes, a surprise,’ says Joe and smiles again. ‘Only the best for my best friend.’

  The girl blushes.

  ‘Oh Joe, thank you,’ she says, and takes his hand tentatively. I think he’s going to flinch, but he doesn’t.

  ‘Yes,’ says Joe happily. ‘I like having a best friend.’

  My son has a best friend who’s a girl? Where on earth did they meet?

  They sit and drink coffee, and talk about Christmas. I watch them together and want to hug her. She seems lovely and I am so pleased Joe has met a friend who treats him normally. And then Joe says, ‘I need to buy a present for my mum.’

  ‘Joe,’ Caroline says, ‘remember …’

  ‘I know, Mum’s dead,’ says Joe conversationally. ‘But I can put it on her grave. It’s Christmas. My mum has to have a present at Christmas.’

  And then, unable to contain myself, I let out a howl of pain. I can’t stand to be here. In my distress I knock Joe’s drink over.

  ‘Oh no!’ says Joe, agitated by the mess, but Caroline quickly calms him down, and wipes everything up.

  ‘What was that?’ Caroline says.

  ‘My mum,’ says Joe serenely. ‘She needs a present for Christmas.’

  I hurl myself through the glass, and out on to the street. I am trapped in a nightmare where my son senses but can’t see me. How am I ever going to sort this out?

  Chapter Two

  Livvy

  I plough headlong through the present-laden shoppers, vaguely aware that I am causing reactions as people stop and look puzzled as I push past them. And I am very much in distress. One old lady drops her bag of apples, and a small child says, ‘Who is that lady, Mummy?’ but I race on heedless, oblivious to anything but the pain I feel at losing my son, until I reach a bench down by the river, and collapse on to it, sobbing.

  ‘What do you think you are playing at?’ Malachi emerges from behind a bin. ‘You’re being far too noticeable.’

  ‘I thought it was only people who were susceptible who could see me?’ I say.

  ‘Usually that’s true,’ says Malachi, flicking his nose up in disgust. ‘But you were making quite a scene, which is hard for most people to ignore. And that child definitely saw you – it’s because she’s young and still has an open mind. You should be more careful.’

  I stare moodily at the flowing river. If I wasn’t dead already, I might be tempted to throw myself in.

  ‘So?’ I say. ‘I’m upset. Wouldn’t you be?’

  Malachi doesn’t get it. Here I am, dead, watching my husband and son blithely getting on with their lives wi
thout me. I don’t mind about Joe, I’m glad he’s happy, but I miss him dreadfully, and it hurts that I can’t seem to get near him. And it hurts even more to think that Adam doesn’t need me. Isn’t that enough to justify a tantrum?

  ‘Well stop feeling so sorry for yourself, and start thinking,’ says Malachi. ‘You need to put things right, not make them worse. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. And having a hissy fit and disturbing everyone in the vicinity is not helping.’

  ‘How am I possibly making anything worse?’ I say. ‘I’m dead. How much worse does it get?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Malachi. ‘Your old life wasn’t all that wonderful.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘My life was great. We were a family. We were happy. I’ve only been dead a year and my husband’s got a girlfriend and my son’s talking about a new mum, and buying a present to put on my grave. Wouldn’t you be upset?’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Malachi, ‘I think it’s time you stopped feeling quite so sorry for yourself and started looking at your life properly. Was it really that brilliant?’

  Stop feeling sorry for myself? The cheek.

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ I snarl at him. ‘I thought you were supposed to be helping me.’

  ‘I am,’ says Malachi, ‘you just need to pay attention. Now think about it, really think.’

  So reluctantly I start remembering things, and I have to acknowledge that sometimes it was less than perfect. In the weeks leading up to my death, Adam and I had been rowing a lot – I think he was upset with me about something, but I’m not sure why. And Joe – I have a sudden flashback to Joe being quiet and retreating in on himself, as if I’d made him sad. I have a nagging feeling I might have done something wrong, but I can’t remember what. Perhaps Malachi is right and my old life wasn’t that perfect. Still, it was better than being dead.

  ‘You can sort things out,’ says Malachi encouragingly. ‘You just need to remember how. You have to find a way of reaching out to them, so you can say sorry. Only then will you be able to move on.’

  ‘But none of them can see me,’ I say. ‘Even Joe can only hear me sometimes.’

  ‘Which is a good start.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I say.

  Since I’ve been back, I’ve been counting on being able to get through to Joe. He at least can hear me; that had to be grounds for hope.

  ‘There are other ways of getting heard,’ says Malachi. ‘You aren’t required to throw things and freak people out by switching lights on and off you know. Go back to the house. Watch them, and learn.’

  ‘OK,’ I say reluctantly. Honestly, it’s come to something when the only person I can talk to is a mangy old black cat.

  ‘Oi, I heard that,’ says Malachi.

  Great, a mangy old mindreading black cat is my sole companion. Maybe he’s right though. Maybe I need to make Adam listen to my side of the story, so we can be a family again.

  Adam

  It’s Monday morning, and I’m yawning as I stare at spreadsheets that don’t seem to be making much sense. I didn’t sleep well last night. I kept dreaming about Livvy, about our early days together which began with such hope and joy. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine how it went so wrong. When I met Livvy she was fun, beautiful, intoxicating to be around. We spent a wonderful summer together at the end of our first year at university, and by the end of it we were deeply in love. We took an utterly magical trip round Europe together and I knew very early on I was going to get married to her, so when she got pregnant in our final year it seemed like the obvious thing to do. When she lost that first baby, we were both heartbroken, but we bounced back and it was fine. More than fine, it was wonderful. I loved her even more, knowing how vulnerable she was. Our shared heartache made us much stronger.

  I kept grasping something of that in my dreams but then they kept changing. One minute I would be holding her hand, laughing, and the next she would be dying, alone on the tarmac, without me there. In reality she had been declared dead soon after I got to the hospital, but in my dreams I am always trying to reach her. Last night’s one is particularly vivid, and this time I nearly get there. I am racing to the car park, and I see her, beautiful and sad, bathed in light as she walks into the car. Her last words break my heart and are still ringing in my ears as I wake up. ‘Why, Adam, why?’

  After that, I can’t sleep. I get up early and go downstairs to turn on the kettle and make a start on the mountains of work waiting for me. The marketing company where I work as a financial director helpfully has its year end in December, so while everyone else is on the downward run to Christmas, I am working pretty much to the bitter end. By the time Emily and Joe get up I’m feeling shattered, but there’s no rest for the wicked, so after Emily makes pancakes for us all we pile out of the house together. Emily, who works in IT for a hip design company in London, heads to the station, while Joe goes off to college. I walk part of the way with Joe and, just as I say goodbye, he says, ‘Where do you think Mum will be this Christmas?’

  Although I am used to Joe asking questions like this since Livvy died, it never fails to get me. I don’t believe in an afterlife, but I can hardly tell Joe that I think Livvy is gone for good.

  I mutter something about her always being with us, and Joe brightens up and says, ‘I think she’s a star in the sky watching over us. Just like Grandad.’

  When Joe was eight, Livvy’s dad died. They were very close, and it hit him hard. After that he used to worry terribly that something would happen to me or Livvy, and, tapping into his love of astronomy, Livvy came up with the idea that when we died we’d watch over him as stars in the sky, which seemed to comfort him. He hadn’t mentioned it for years, but it was as good an explanation as any.

  ‘Grandad’s star is Orion,’ explains Joe. ‘Because he liked hunting and Orion is the Hunter. Mostly it’s too cloudy to see him properly, and all you can see is the three stars on his belt. But sometimes you can see the whole thing, and it’s so cool, Dad, he looks like a hunter, with a bow and arrow and everything. And Mum’s star is Venus. Although technically Venus is a planet – but anyway – Venus is the morning and evening star because she’s the first thing you see in the morning and the last thing at night. Just like Mum used to get me up in the morning and put me to bed at night when I was little. If I look at Venus, that’s Mum watching me.’

  ‘I’m sure she is, Joe,’ I say in relief. I pat him on the shoulder, and he goes on to college, while I make my way to work.

  By 11 a.m. I have had three cups of coffee, and am flagging badly. I seem to have been looking at the screen forever, not getting anything done, when I get the distinct impression there is someone standing behind me. I look round. Nothing. Why would there be? Everyone else is gossiping about the office Christmas party this afternoon, not even bothering to focus on work. There’s an air of jollity about the place which I’m not sharing. I’ve got so much to do that I don’t want to go to the party. A year on and celebrating Christmas somehow feels all wrong. It’s been a year, but still my sadness about what happened to Livvy hangs over me. Emily and I are going through the motions for Joe. He needs the order, the stability; at least that’s what Livvy always said. And his routine and order have been spectacularly shot to pieces this last year.

  If it hadn’t been for Livvy managing to get him into that college, I’m sure he’d be in a much worse state. That was one thing she always got spectacularly right. From the moment of Joe’s diagnosis, she worked hard to make sure he always had the best support at school. She gave up the job she loved in advertising so she could stay at home with Joe and fought every bit of red tape, and unhelpful officialdom, to make sure Joe got everything he needed. Without her, Joe would never have come this far. I used to worry terribly that she was making Joe such a focus that she didn’t have much time for herself, and tried to get her to go away on the odd girlie weekend. But she always found it hard leaving Joe, and said she didn’t mind about work, Joe needed her. Perhaps I should have pressed he
r on that. Sometimes she did seem sad and overburdened but, try as I might, I could never get her to share her thoughts with me. Looking back I can see I failed her there. She made Joe her world, and sometimes I think that was a mistake. She left friendships slide, and didn’t develop any outside interests the way I had. I should have seen that, I should have helped more. But to my deep regret I didn’t.

  A familiar mixture of grief, guilt and self-disgust washes over me. I want to put my head in my hands and wake up. But these spreadsheets need doing, and at least they’ll distract me. So I plough on. And then …

  … my computer freezes.

  Suddenly it’s as though someone has taken over the keyboard. A new window opens up. It’s Livvy’s Facebook page. I’m reminded I should have closed it down after she died, but I don’t have the password. Besides so many people have left tributes there over the last year, I can’t bring myself to. And secretly I go on it sometimes, and look at pictures of us in younger, happier times. Emily says I’m being morbid. Maybe I am.

  The screen seems to have frozen on one particular picture. It was from our first trip abroad, when we went Interrailing round Europe. There Livvy is in a café in Venice, sunkissed, her auburn hair flowing in the breeze, laughing in delight. I remember that day well. We’d overdosed on sightseeing and spent the day wandering the streets, buying knick-knacks in shops, stopping for ice cream in tiny little piazzas; we ended the day sitting in this café, watching the gondolas plying their trade on the canals. It had been perfect, glorious; and there she is captured on my screen; a record of our happiness frozen in time.

  I sit and stare at the picture, and have a moment of brief joy, thinking that not all my memories are tainted, followed swiftly by a familiar stab of pain that Livvy isn’t here and I can’t tell her. I stare for a long time feeling immensely sad, and then shake myself out of it. This isn’t going to get my spreadsheets done.

  The screen still seems to be frozen, so I press alt, control, delete. Nothing happens. And then an instant message pops up.