Before I Die (20 page)

He steps into the hallway and tries to put his arm around me as if we’re all just going to walk to his car and get in. As if he’s going to drive and I’m going to bleed all over the upholstery and none of it matters. I look like road kill. Doesn’t he understand that he really shouldn’t be seeing me like this?

I shove him off. ‘Go home, Adam.’

‘I’m taking you to the hospital,’ he says again, as if perhaps I didn’t hear him the first time, or maybe the blood has made me stupid.

Mum takes his arm and gently leads him back out of the door. ‘We’ll manage,’ she says. ‘It’s all right. Anyway, look, the cab’s here now.’

‘I want to be with her.’

‘I know,’ she tells him. ‘I’m sorry.’

He touches my hand as I walk past him up the path. ‘Tess,’ he says.

I don’t answer. I don’t even look at him, because his voice is so clear that if I look I might change my mind. To find love just as I go and have to give it up – it’s such a bad joke. But I have to. For him and for me. Before it starts hurting even more than this.

Mum spreads towels across the back seat of the cab, makes sure we’re belted up, then encourages the driver to do a very dramatic U-turn outside the gate.

‘That’s it,’ Mum tells him. ‘Put your foot down.’ She sounds as if she’s in a movie.

Adam watches from the gate. He waves. He gets smaller and smaller as we drive away.

Mum says, ‘That was kind of him.’

I close my eyes. I feel as if I’m falling even though I’m sitting down.

Mum nudges me with her elbow. ‘Stay awake.’

The moon bounces through the window. In the headlights – mist.

We were going dancing. I wanted to try alcohol again. I wanted to stand on tables and sing cheering songs. I wanted to climb over the fence in the park, steal a boat and circle the lake. I wanted to go back to Adam’s house and creep up to his room and make love.

‘Adam,’ I say under my breath. But it gets covered in blood like everything else.

At the hospital, they find me a wheelchair and make me sit in it. I’m an emergency, they tell me as they rush me away from the reception area. We leave behind the ordinary victims of pub brawls, bad drugs and late-night domestics and we speed down the corridor to somewhere more important.

I find the layers of a hospital strangely reassuring. This is a duplicate world with its own rules and everyone has their place. In the emergency rooms will be the young men with fast cars and crap brakes. The motorcyclists who took a bend too sharply.

In the operating theatres are the people who mucked around with air rifles, or who got followed home by a psychopath. Also, the victims of random accident – the child whose hair got caught in an escalator, the woman wearing an underwired bra in a lightning storm.

And in bed, deep inside the building, are all the headaches that won’t go away. The failed kidneys, the rashes, the ragged-edged moles, the lumps on the breast, the coughs that have turned nasty. In the Marie Curie Ward on the fourth floor are the kids with cancer. Their bodies secretly and slowly being consumed.

And then there’s the mortuary, where the dead lie in refrigerated drawers with name tags on their feet.

The room I end up in is bright and sterile. There’s a bed, a sink, a doctor and a nurse.

‘I think she’s thirsty,’ Mum says. ‘She’s lost so much blood. Shouldn’t she have a drink?’

The doctor dismisses this with a wave of his hand. ‘We need to pack her nose.’

‘Pack it?’

The nurse ushers Mum to a chair and sits down next to her. ‘The doctor will put strips of gauze in her nose to stop the blood,’ she says. ‘You’re welcome to stay.’

I’m shivering. The nurse gets up to give me a blanket and pulls it up to my chin. I shiver again.

‘Someone’s dreaming about you,’ Mum says. ‘That’s what that means.’

I always thought it meant that, in another life, someone was standing on my grave.

The doctor pinches my nose, peers in my mouth, feels my throat and the back of my neck.

‘Mum?’ he says.

She looks startled, sits upright in her chair. ‘Me?’

‘Any signs of thrombocytopenia before today?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Has she complained of a headache? Have you noticed any pinprick bruising?’

‘I didn’t look.’

The doctor sighs, clocks in a moment that this is a whole new language for her, yet, strangely, persists.

‘When was the last platelet transfusion?’

Mum looks increasingly bewildered. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Has she used aspirin products recently?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know any of this.’

I decide to save her. She’s not strong enough, and she might just walk out if it gets too difficult.

‘December the twenty-first was the last platelet transfusion,’ I say. My voice sounds raspy. Blood bubbles in my throat.

The doctor frowns at me. ‘Don’t talk. Mum, get yourself over here and take your daughter’s hand.’

She obediently comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

‘Squeeze your mum’s hand once for yes,’ the doctor tells me. ‘Twice for no. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shush,’ he says. ‘Squeeze. Don’t talk.’

We go through the same routine – the bruising, the headaches, the aspirin, but this time Mum knows the answers.

‘Bonjela or Teejel?’ the doctor asks.

Two squeezes. ‘No,’ Mum tells him. ‘She hasn’t used them.’

‘Anti-inflammatories?’

‘No,’ Mum says. She looks me in the eyes. She speaks my language at last.

‘Good,’ the doctor says. ‘I’m going to pack the front of your nose with gauze. If that doesn’t do it, we’ll pack the back, and if the bleeding still persists, we’ll have to cauterize. Have you had your nose cauterized before?’

I squeeze Mum’s hand so hard that she winces. ‘Yes, she has.’

It hurts like hell. I could smell my own flesh burning for days.

‘We’ll need to check your platelets,’ he goes on. ‘I’d be surprised if you weren’t below twenty.’ He touches my knee through the blanket. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a rotten night for you.’

‘Below twenty?’ Mum echoes.

‘She’ll probably need a couple of units,’ he explains. ‘Don’t worry, it shouldn’t take more than an hour.’

As he packs sterile cotton into my nose, I try and concentrate on simple things – a chair, the twin silver birch trees in Adam’s garden and the way their leaves shiver in sunlight.

But I can’t hold onto it.

I feel as if I’ve eaten a sanitary towel; my mouth is dry and it’s hard to breathe. I look at Mum, but all I see is that she’s feeling squeamish and has turned her face away. How can I feel older than my own mother? I close my eyes so I don’t have to see her fail.

‘Uncomfortable?’ the doctor asks. ‘Mum, any chance of distracting her?’

I wish he hadn’t said that. What’s she going to do? Dance for us? Sing? Perhaps she’ll do her famous disappearing act and walk out of the door.

The silence goes on a long time. Then, ‘Do you remember the day we all tried oysters, and how your dad was sick in the bin at the end of the pier?’

I open my eyes. Whatever shadows are in the room disappear with the brightness of her words. Even the nurse smiles.

‘They tasted exactly of the sea,’ she says. ‘Do you remember?’

I do. We bought four, one for each of us. Mum tipped her head right back and swallowed hers whole. I did the same. But Dad chewed his and it got stuck in his teeth. He ran down the pier clutching his stomach, and when he came back, he drank a whole can of lemonade without pausing for breath. Cal didn’t like them either. ‘Perhaps they’re a female thing,’ Mum said, and she bought us both another one.

She goes on to describe a seaside town and a hotel, a short walk to the beach and days when the sun shone bright and warm.

‘You loved it there,’ she says. ‘You’d collect shells and pebbles for hours. Once you tied some rope to a lump of driftwood and spent an entire day dragging it up and down the beach pretending you had a dog.’

The nurse laughs at this and Mum smiles. ‘You were a wonderfully imaginative little girl,’ she tells me. ‘Such an easy child.’

And if I could talk, I’d ask her why, then, did she leave me? And maybe she’d speak at last of the man she left Dad for. She might tell me of a love so big that I’d begin to understand.

But I can’t talk. My throat feels small and feverish. So instead, I listen as Mum explores an old sun, faded days, past beauty. It’s good. She’s very inventive. Even the doctor looks as if he’s enjoying himself. In her story, the sky shimmers, and day after day we see dolphins playing in the sea.

‘Supplementary oxygen,’ the doctor says. And he winks at me as if he’s offering me dope. ‘No need to cauterize. Well done.’ He has a word with the nurse, then turns in the doorway to wave goodbye. ‘Best customer tonight so far,’ he tells me, then he gives Mum a little bow. ‘And you weren’t so bad either.’

‘Well, what a night that was!’ Mum says as we finally climb into a cab to take us home.

‘I liked you being with me.’

She looks surprised, pleased even. ‘I’m not sure how much use I was.’

Early-morning light spills from the sky onto the road. It’s cold in the taxi, the air rarefied, like inside a church.

‘Here,’ Mum says, and she unbuttons her coat and wraps it round my shoulders.

‘Step on it,’ she tells the driver, and we both chuckle.

We drive back the way we came. She’s very talkative, full of plans for spring and Easter. She wants to spend more time at our house, she says. She wants to invite some of her and Dad’s old friends for dinner. She might want a party for my birthday in May.

Perhaps she means it this time.

‘Do you know,’ she says, ‘every night when the market stalls are being packed away, I go out and collect vegetables and fruit off the ground. Sometimes they chuck away whole boxes of mangoes. Last week I got five sea bass just lying there in a plastic bag. If I begin to put things in Dad’s freezer, we’ll have plenty for parties and dinners and it won’t cost your father a penny.’

She gets lost in party games and cocktails. She talks of bands and entertainers; she hires the local community hall and covers it in streamers and balloons. I nudge up next to her and put my head on her shoulder. I’m her daughter after all. I try and keep really still because I don’t want it to change. It’s lovely being lulled by her words and the warmth of her coat.

‘Look,’ she says. ‘That’s strange.’

It’s a struggle to open my eyes. ‘What is?’

‘There on the bridge. That wasn’t there before.’

We’ve stopped at the traffic lights outside the railway station. Even at this early hour it’s busy, with taxis dropping off commuters determined to beat the rush. On the bridge, high above the road, letters have blossomed during the night. Several people are looking. There’s a wobbly T, a jagged E, and four interlinked curves for the double S. At the end, bigger than the other letters, there’s a mountainous A.

Mum says, ‘That’s a coincidence.’

But it’s not.

My phone’s in my pocket. My fingers furl and unfurl.

He would’ve done this last night. It would’ve been dark. He climbed the wall, straddled it, then leaned right over.

My heart hurts. I get out my phone and text: R U ALIVE?

The lights change through amber to green. The cab moves under the bridge and along the High Street.

It’s half past six. Will he even be awake? What if he lost his balance and plummeted onto the road below?

‘Oh my goodness,’ Mum says. ‘You’re everywhere!’

The shops in the High Street still have their metal grilles down, blank-eyed and sleeping. My name is scrawled across them all. I’m outside Ajay’s newsagent’s. I’m on the expensive shutters of the health food store. I’m massive on Handie’s furniture shop, King’s Chicken Joint and the Barbecue Café. I thread the pavement outside the bank and all the way to Mothercare. I’ve possessed the road and am a glistening circle at the roundabout.

‘It’s a miracle!’ Mum whispers.

‘It’s Adam.’

‘From next door?’ She sounds amazed, as if there’s magic afoot.

My phone bleeps.
AM ALIVE. U
?

I laugh out loud. When I get back, I’m going to knock on his door and tell him I’m sorry. He’s going to smile at me the way he did yesterday when he was carrying garden rubbish down the path and he saw me watching and said, ‘Just can’t keep away, can you?’ It made me laugh, because actually it was true, but saying it out loud made it not so painful.

‘Adam did this for you?’ Mum shivers with excitement. She always did believe in romance.

I text him back. AM ALIVE 2. CMING HME NOW.

Zoey asked me once, ‘What’s the best moment of your life so far?’ And I told her about the time I was practising handstands with my friend Lorraine. I was eight, the school fair was the next day, and Mum had promised to buy me a jewellery box. I lay on the grass holding Lorraine’s hand, dizzy with happiness and absolutely certain that the world was good.

Zoey thought I was nuts. But really, it was the first time I’d ever known I was happy in such a conscious way.

Kissing Adam replaced it. Making love replaced that. And now he’s done this for me. He’s made me famous. He’s put my name on the world. I’ve been in hospital all night, my head’s stuffed with cotton. I’m clutching a paper bag full of antibiotics and painkillers, and my arm aches from two units of platelets delivered through my portacath. And yet, it’s extraordinary how happy I feel.

Thirty

‘I want Adam to move in.’

Dad turns from the sink, his hands dripping soapsuds onto the floor. He looks utterly stunned. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘I mean it.’

‘Where’s he supposed to sleep?’

‘In my bedroom.’

‘There’s no way I’m agreeing to that, Tess!’ He turns back to the sink, clunks bowls and plates about. ‘Is this on your list? Is having a live-in boyfriend on your list?’

‘His name’s Adam.’

He shakes his head. ‘Forget it.’

‘Then I’ll move into his house.’

‘You think his mother will want you there?’

‘We’ll bugger off to Scotland and live in a croft then. Would you prefer that?’

His mouth twitches with anger as he turns back to me. ‘The answer’s no, Tess.’