Before I Die (13 page)

‘Hi,’ he says. ‘How are you?’

I sit up in my deckchair. ‘Did you just climb over the fence?’

He shakes his head. ‘It’s broken down the bottom.’

He’s wearing jeans, boots, a leather jacket. He’s got something behind his back. ‘Here,’ he says. He holds out a bunch of wild green leaves to me. Amongst them are bright orange flowers. They look like lanterns or baby pumpkins.

‘For me?’

‘For you.’

My heart hurts. ‘I’m trying not to acquire new things.’

He frowns. ‘Perhaps living things don’t count.’

‘I think they might count more.’

He sits down on the grass next to my chair and puts the flowers between us. The ground is wet. It will seep into him. It will make him cold. I don’t tell him this. I don’t tell him about the maggots either. I want them to creep into his pockets.

Cal comes back with a gardening trowel.

‘You planting something?’ Adam asks him.

‘Dead bird,’ he says, and he points to the place where it lies.

Adam leans over. ‘That’s a rook. Did your cat get it?’

‘Don’t know. I’m going to bury it though.’

Cal walks over to the back fence, finds a spot in the flowerbed and starts to dig. The earth is wet as cake mix. Where the spade meets little stones, it sounds like shoes on gravel.

Adam plucks bits of grass and sieves them between his fingers. ‘I’m sorry about what I said the other day.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘It didn’t come out right.’

‘Really, it’s OK. We don’t have to talk about it.’

He nods very seriously, still threading grass, still not looking at me. ‘You are worth bothering with.’

‘I am?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So you want to be friends?’

He looks up. ‘If you do.’

‘And you’re sure there’s a point to it?’

I enjoy watching him blush, the confusion in his eyes. Maybe Dad’s right and I’m turning to anger.

‘I think there’s a point,’ he says.

‘Then you’re forgiven.’

I hold my hand out and we shake on it. His hand is warm.

Cal comes over, smeared in dirt, spade in hand. He looks like a demented boy undertaker. ‘The grave’s ready,’ he says.

Adam helps him roll the rook onto the spade. It’s stiff and looks heavy. Its injury is obvious – a red gash at the back of its neck. Its head lolls drunkenly as they carry it between them over to the hole. Cal talks to it as they walk. ‘Poor bird,’ he says. ‘Come on, time to rest.’

I wrap my blanket round my shoulders and follow them across the grass to watch them tip it in. One eye shines up at us. It looks peaceful, even grateful. Its feathers are darker now.

‘Should we say something?’ Cal asks.

‘
Goodbye, bird?
’ I suggest.

He nods. ‘Goodbye, bird. Thank you for coming. And good luck.’

He scoops mud over it, but leaves the head uncovered, as if the bird might like to take a last look around. ‘What about the maggots?’ he says.

‘What about them?’

‘Won’t they suffocate?’

‘Leave an air hole,’ I tell him.

He seems happy with this suggestion, crumbles earth over the bird’s head and pats it down. He makes a hole for the maggots with a stick.

‘Get some stones, Tess, then we can decorate it.’

I do as I’m told and wander off to look. Adam stays with Cal. He tells him that rooks are very sociable, that this rook will have many friends, and they’ll be grateful to Cal for burying it with so much care.

I think he’s trying to impress me.

These two white stones are almost perfectly round. Here is a snail’s shell, a red leaf. A soft grey feather. I hold them in my hand. They’re so lovely that I have to lean against the shed and close my eyes.

It’s a mistake. It’s like falling into darkness.

There’s earth on my head. I’m cold. Worms burrow. Termites and woodlice come.

I try and focus on good things, but it’s so hard to scramble out. I open my eyes to the rough fingers of the apple tree. A spider’s web quivering silver. My warm hands clutching the stones.

But all that is warm will go cold. My ears will fall off and my eyes will melt. My mouth will be clamped shut. My lips will turn to glue.

Adam appears. ‘You all right?’ he says.

I concentrate on breathing. In. Out. But breathing brings the opposite when you become aware of it. My lungs will dry up like paper fans. Out. Out.

He touches my shoulder. ‘Tessa?’

No taste or smell or touch or sound. Nothing to look at. Total emptiness for ever.

Cal runs up. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You look weird.’

‘I got dizzy bending down.’

‘Shall I get Dad?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?

‘Finish the grave, Cal. I’ll be OK.’

I give him the things I collected and he runs off. Adam stays. A blackbird flies low over the fence. The sky is griddled pink and grey. Breathe. In. In.

Adam says, ‘What is it?’

How can I tell him?

He reaches out and touches my back with the flat of his hand. I don’t know what this means. His hand is firm, moving in gentle circles. We agreed to be friends. Is this what friends do?

His heat comes through the weave of the blanket, through my coat, my jumper, my T-shirt. Through to my skin. It hurts so much that thoughts are difficult to find. My body becomes all sensation.

‘Stop it.’

‘What?’

I shrug him off. ‘Can’t you just go away?’

There’s a moment. It has a sound in it, as if something very small got broken.

‘You want me to go?’

‘Yes. And don’t come back.’

He walks across the grass. He says goodbye to Cal and goes back through the broken bit of fence. Except for the flowers by the chair, it’s as if he’s never been here at all. I pick them up. Their orange heads nod at me as I give them to Cal.

‘These are for the bird.’

‘Cool!’

He lays them on the damp earth and we stand together looking down at the grave.

Twenty

Dad’s taking ages to discover I’m missing. I wish he’d hurry up because my left leg’s gone to sleep and I need to move before I get gangrene or something. I shuffle to a squatting position, grab a jumper from the shelf above me and push it down with one hand amongst the shoes so that I have a better place to sit. The wardrobe door creaks open a fraction as I settle. It sounds very loud for a moment. Then it stops.

‘Tess?’ The bedroom door eases open and Dad tiptoes across the carpet. ‘Mum’s here. Didn’t you hear me call?’

Through the crack in the wardrobe door I see the confusion on his face as he realizes that the bundle on my bed is only the duvet. He lifts it up and looks underneath, as if I might’ve shrunk into someone very small since he last saw me at breakfast.

‘Shit!’ he says, and he rubs a hand across his face as if he doesn’t understand, walks over to the window and looks out at the garden. Beside him, on the ledge, is a green glass apple. I was given it for being a bridesmaid at my cousin’s wedding. I was twelve and recently diagnosed. I remember people telling me how lovely I looked with my bald head wrapped in a floral headscarf, when all the other girls had real flowers in their hair.

Dad picks up the apple and holds it up to the morning. There are swirls of cream and brown in there that look like the core of a real apple; an impression of pips, blown in by the glassmaker. He spins it slowly in his hand. I’ve looked at the world through that green glass many times – it looks small and calm.

I don’t think he should be touching my things though. I think he should be dealing with Cal, who’s yelling up the stairs about the aerial coming out of the back of the TV. I also think he should go down and tell Mum that the only reason he’s asked her round is because he wants her back. Getting involved in matters of discipline goes against all her principles, so he’s hardly looking for advice in that area.

He puts down the apple and goes to the bookshelf, runs a finger along the spines of my books, like they’re piano keys and he’s expecting a tune. He twists his head to look up at the CD rack, picks one out, reads the cover, then puts it back.

‘Dad!’ Cal yells from downstairs. ‘The picture’s completely fuzzy and Mum’s useless!’

Dad sighs, moves towards the door, but can’t resist the temptation to pull the duvet straight as he passes. He reads my wall for a bit – all the things I’m going to miss, all the things I want. He shakes his head at it, then bends down and picks up a T-shirt from the floor, folds it and places it on my pillow. And that’s when he notices my bedside drawer is slightly open.

Cal’s getting closer. ‘I’m missing my programmes!’

‘Go back down, Cal! I’m coming now.’

But he isn’t. He’s sitting on the edge of my bed and sliding the drawer open with one finger. Inside are pages and pages of words I’ve written about my list. My thoughts on the things I’ve already done – sex, yes, drugs, breaking the law – and my plans for the rest. It’s going to freak him out if he reads what I intend to do for number five today. There’s the rustle of paper, the shift of the elastic band. It sounds very loud. I struggle to sit up in order to jump out of the wardrobe and wrestle him to the ground, but Cal saves me by opening the bedroom door. Dad fumbles the papers back into the drawer, slams it shut.

‘Can’t I have any peace?’ he says. ‘Not even for five minutes?’

‘Were you looking at Tessa’s stuff?’

‘Is it any business of yours?’

‘It is if I tell her.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, give me a break!’ Dad’s footsteps pound down the stairs. Cal follows him.

I clamber out of the wardrobe and rub life back into my legs. I can feel the curdle of sluggish blood at my knee, and my foot has gone completely dead. I hobble over to the bed and plonk myself down just as Cal comes back in.

He looks at me in surprise. ‘Dad said you weren’t here.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Yeah, you are!’

‘Keep your voice down. Where’s he gone?’

Cal shrugs. ‘He’s in the kitchen with Mum. I hate him. He just called me a bugger and then he said the f-word.’

‘Are they talking about me?’

‘Yeah, and they won’t let me watch the telly!’

We creep down the stairs and peer over the banister. Dad’s perched on a bar stool in the middle of the kitchen. He looks clumsy up there digging around in his trouser pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. Mum stands with her back against the fridge watching him.

‘When did you start smoking again?’ she says. She’s wearing jeans and has tied her hair back so that strands of it hang loose around her face. She looks young and pretty as she passes him a saucer.

Dad lights the cigarette and blows smoke across the room. ‘I’m sorry, it looks like I got you here under false pretences.’ He looks confused for a moment, as if he doesn’t know what to say next. ‘I just thought you could talk some sense into her.’

‘Where do you reckon she’s gone this time?’

‘Knowing her, she’s probably on her way to the airport!’

Mum chuckles, and it’s strange because it makes her seem more alive than Dad somehow. He smiles grimly at her from his stool, runs a hand over his hair. ‘I’m bloody knackered.’

‘I can see that.’

‘The boundaries change all the time. One minute she doesn’t want anyone near her, then she wants to be held for hours. She won’t leave the house for days, then disappears when I’m least expecting it. This list of hers is doing my head in.’

‘You know,’ Mum says, ‘the only really right thing anyone could do would be to make her well again, and none of us can do that.’

He looks at her very intently. ‘I’m not sure how much more I can manage by myself. Some mornings I can hardly bear to open my eyes.’

Cal nudges me. ‘Shall I gob at him?’ he whispers.

‘Yeah. Get it in his cup.’

He gathers spit in his mouth and gobs it out hard. His aim’s rubbish. It barely makes it through the door; most of it just slimes down his chin and onto the hall carpet.

I roll my eyes at him and gesture for him to follow me. We go back upstairs to my room.

‘Sit on the floor by the door,’ I tell him. ‘Put your hands over your face and don’t let either of them in.’

‘What’re you going to do?’

‘I’m getting dressed.’

‘Then what are you going to do?’

I take off my pyjamas, step into my best knickers and ease myself into the silk dress I bought on my shopping spree with Cal. I rub the fizz of pins and needles from my feet and pull on my strappy shoes.

Cal says, ‘Do you want to see my Megazord? You’ll have to come to my room because it’s defending a city and if I move it, everyone will die.’

I get my coat from the back of the chair. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry actually.’

He peeps at me between his fingers. ‘That’s your adventuring dress!’

‘Yeah.’

He stands up, blocking the door. ‘Can I come?’

‘No.’

‘Please. I hate it here.’

‘No.’

I leave my phone because they can trace you from that. I stuff the papers from the drawer in my coat pocket. I’ll chuck them in a bin somewhere later. See, Dad, how things disappear in front of your eyes?

Before I send him downstairs, I bribe Cal. He knows exactly how many magic tricks he can buy with a tenner, and understands he’ll get written out of my will if he ever squeals I was here.

I wait until I hear him down there, then I follow slowly behind. I pause on the turn of the stair, not only for breath, but also to look through the window over the flat of the lawn, to brush a finger along the wall, to encircle a spindle of the banisters, to smile at the photos at the top of the stairs.

In the kitchen, Cal squats on the floor in front of Mum and Dad and simply stares at them.

‘Did you want something?’ Dad says.

‘I want to listen.’

‘Sorry, it’s grown-up talk.’

‘I want something to eat then.’

‘You’ve just had half a packet of biscuits.’

‘I’ve got some chewing gum,’ Mum says. ‘Do you want a bit of that?’ She looks in her jacket pocket and hands it over.

Cal stuffs the gum in his mouth, chews it thoughtfully, then says, ‘When Tessa dies, can we go on holiday?’

Dad manages to look vicious and surprised at the same time. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’