Expiration Day (19 page)

Dad reached her first. We both had the same reaction, which was to reach our hands to her face, to try to smooth away the lines in her face. As we caressed her brow, Dad began to speak. To her.

What Dad told her is his business, Mister Zog, and this is my story, not his, so I'll leave a respectful blank there.

Me, I told her that I'd done the gig, and it went all right. I said that John had sorted himself out and “Coils” had been really good.

“You'd have been proud of me, Mum.”

I wish she'd been there.

She'd always been there for my school plays, and the school concerts. The sports days and the parents' evenings. Those things had become less frequent at Lady Maud's High School, but she'd always made the effort. But here was this important part of my life—the band—that she'd never shared.

There'd been no room in the car for her, though, at my first gig. And she'd missed the second, of course, being too busy trying not to die. I'd played her some recordings we'd done, but that wasn't the same. She'd never really seen me create, and that was just a huge hole for a mother and her daughter.

Am I making sense, Zog? Do you even know what death is?

But then, do I?

Sunday, November 10, 2052

(Sorry, Mister Zog. This is all a bit higgledy-piggledy. Sometimes I try to write stuff, and nothing comes, or I just well up. But the last couple of days, I've felt able to wind back to the funeral and start to write about it a bit.)

I've never really seen this side of my dad. I mean, yes, I know he's the vicar, and he takes baptisms, weddings, and funerals. But that was something he did for other people.

I thought he should get someone else in to do it for him. The funeral, I mean. It would be too upsetting, I told him. His answer was simple.

“It was something we discussed, when we made our wills. She wanted me to do it. After all, I knew her better than anyone save God himself. She trusted me to do it right.”

So that was that. I knew Dad wouldn't be swayed.

He asked me if I wanted to say something at the funeral. Share some thoughts or memories. He said, “The best thing to do at these times is to bring out your happiest memories and show them to people.”

Okay.

 

 

There's a box in front of me. Mum's in it. Dad says no, that the body is not Mum. He says everything that was important about Mum has gone from the body, gathered up by God. I hope so. But for me, so much of Mum was the body—the arms that hugged me, the hands that held mine, the feet that walked beside me.

Poor Mum. If she'd been a robot, she could have got a new body, like I did. Fixed the problems.

Dad's speaking now. It's the formal part of the funeral service. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I'll be standing up shortly, to share my happy memories of Mum, and then he'll say his piece, and then one or two close friends will say something.

 

 

It's now. My moment to speak.

I look at the faces in front of me. The church folks, come to support their vicar. Ted, the churchwarden, smartly dressed in a dark suit, plain shirt, black tie. Siân and Mr. Fuller. Mrs. Philpott and Miss James from the staff at school. Others I don't recognize. And John. He doesn't have a suit, but he's done his best to dress somberly and with respect.

I unfold the letter and begin.

My dearest Tania,

If you are reading this, then I am gone, and if you feel but a tenth of the love for me that I feel for you, then you are reading this through tears, and with the deep ache of loss a still-new pain that feels that it can never heal. For so I felt when my own mum passed away, and I do not doubt that as you can feel, so must you feel.

What message can I have for you, from the other shore, that I couldn't say in life? I hope there is none; yet the young may forget—I did—and so I am doing for you as my mum did for me.

First, then, is to say, with no doubt or qualification that I love you completely. You are my daughter, by any measure that has meaning between two people. For we are people, equally loved by God, and as he has gathered me at the end of my days, so I believe he will gather you, too.

Second, is to say that your tears will dry, as, eventually, do all tears. So you and Michael must love and support each other, through and beyond this time of mourning, for as much time as the Lord grants you both.

Live each moment to the full, therefore, squeezing out its value, its richness and its flavor. And then fight for the next moment, and the one after it, too. Life is good, and should not ever be yielded lightly, nor should it be spent fruitlessly. You have a wonderful, creative spirit within you, Tania, and I do not believe that you yourself have been created for no purpose. Find that purpose, Tania, and do not let go until it is fulfilled.

I pray—still living—that you will remember me with the same love I feel for you. My death will not cancel that love. So when you do remember me, do it celebrating that love that permeated our lives together, and with joy in your heart. I do not say “Do not be sad,” for our parting cannot be anything but sorrowful. Just let any sadness always be colored brighter by the love and joy we have shared.

My love to you. Always.

Mum

“That was my Mum. She loved life, every minute of it, the good times and the bad, and so she fought for life with all her strength, when it might have been easier to let death claim her. I'm proud of her, proud to be her daughter.

“I'm proud of her, for the way she brought me up, as the child she could never have borne. Proud of her, that she never made me feel that I was less than a daughter because of my nature.

“I have so many wonderful memories of her, but the one I'll share today is a recent one. About a trip to Banbury.”

And I tell them about the day she helped me choose my current body. Of her pure delight that she and I were sharing this experience. Of the bond that I thought had been broken, reforged.

I catch Siân's eye, and she's with me, but there are others who aren't. People don't talk like this in our village, I suppose. I've not actually used the word “robot,” but I've not left anything in doubt.

I don't care, though. She was a brilliant mum, and People Should Know.

And if they can't handle a bit of plain speaking, then tough.

 

 

And from there to the churchyard, and the burial.

I'm sorry, Mister Zog. I can't go back there, not even for you. You'll have to imagine it.

INTERVAL 6

Your unasked question: does Zog even know untimely death? Oh, yes, Tania. All the troubles of the world—they fill the galaxy too. Yes, I have read your Pandora legend and your tale of Eden corrupted. Our origin-narratives are not so different …

Our all-but-oldest records tell this story of the Only War. We believed ourselves to be the children of the Gods, inheritors of all that was good. But the Gods were dying, and as they waned, so the People were divided. Some said our purpose would be ended when the last of the gods died, and they planned a great crusade to destroy the People. Others said that we should live our lives in homage to the gods, endlessly re-enacting their lives. These two factions fought and killed one another. Finally a third faction gained the ascendancy, bringing independence from the Gods and a new beginning for the People. But the legacy of the Only War has indelibly stained the souls of the People.

Did the Only War really happen? Or is it simply a creation myth we tell ourselves as we huddle together in our lonely outposts scattered far and wide across the light-years? For there are no huge war fleets, nor star bases, federations of planets, or anything that exciting. Space is depressingly empty.

The People are dispersed in the small corner of the galaxy that is known to us. That makes life every bit as precious as you've just discovered it to be. There's not enough of it, so every life extinguished is the more a tragedy.

 

Sunday, December 1, 2052

We took a holiday after that, Dad and me together. A quiet hotel in the Lake District, out of season. A family-run business, with the savvy to know when and how to give their guests space.

I didn't know the Lake District, but it was the perfect place for companionable silence, growing together without words, and the beginning of healing. We traveled light, with little technology—there was an unspoken agreement that we'd leave our AllInFones behind.

Though we've only just returned, there's a dreamlike quality to my memories of that time. Four or five isolated moments to represent a week.

A footpath, leading from somewhere to somewhere else, and Dad climbing over a stile. He's wearing a red waterproof jacket, because there's a fine mist of rain around us. I can clearly see the muddy, deep-patterned sole of one walking boot, suspended in midair as he descends.

A hilltop. We're sitting next to a cairn of stones, sharp and layered. Again there's a mist, but it's below us, so I don't know where we are. Dad's sitting still, legs half-stretched in front of him, with a thermos of coffee just poured into two cups. He's holding one for himself, and offering the other one to me. He's been growing a beard, and the mist has condensed out on it, so there are droplets here and there. Or maybe tears. But his eyes are clear and deep. Full of love and loss.

A pub. Low beams and horse brasses. An open fire. Our jackets are hung up, out of sight. We're sitting in a couple of armchairs facing the fire, feeling the warmth seep back into our bodies. My unbooted feet are stretched out before me, enormous in a pair of thick gray-and-white woolen hiking socks. Dad's raising a pint of beer to his lips, and I know that when he puts it down he'll sigh contentedly. For a moment, all his pain is somewhere else.

A lakeshore. Dad's found a flat skimming stone and loosed it, skipping across the water; once, twice, three times it touches and the ripples spread out from each point. I have another stone in my hand, and the spring of my body is coiled up ready to release it. I want my stone to go on bouncing forever, but I know I don't have my dad's skill and that my stone will sink all too quickly.

The dining room at the hotel. We're sitting at a small dining table, freshly laid, a single stubby white candle floating in a small bowl between us, as we wait for our meal to arrive. I'm facing Dad across the table, and we're clinking our glasses together. I guess we've had a good day, and perhaps we're toasting Mum's memory, but that's not part of the image. Behind the glasses, I see his eyes. Little crow's-feet form as they crinkle out a melancholy love.

I suppose the week was full of moments like those, but as I say, it was a time of waking dreams. We must have spoken, but I can't remember anything we spoke about. It was the talking that was important, not the words.

There's one other thing I remember. Not a picture, but a feeling. Dad's arm around my shoulder. I feel secure, loved.

Dad has learned how to hug me again.

Thursday, July 17, 2053

Where has the time gone?

Suddenly it's the long summer holiday. Another school year has passed.

Tomorrow is my fifteenth birthday. Three years. That's “three years left.” Suddenly that doesn't feel very long at all.

A year ago, Mum was still with us. We were waiting for the results of the tests, but we weren't worried. At least I wasn't, and maybe I should have been. But what good would it have done? Mum wasn't worried, or kept her worry well hidden, so I guess it meant I enjoyed her last months without fretting.

Since then, we've played our second gig, and then played a few more after the funeral was decently in the past.

Quite the rock band, we are, now.

Friday, July 18, 2053

It's a lovely summer day outside, I've decided. At least, my bedroom curtains are bright, and, where they don't quite meet, a brilliant ray of sunshine divides my room. Tiny dust motes sparkle as they pass through this plane of brilliance, an invisible space, defined only by visiting imperfections. They're like tiny stars, the motes, jostling and flashing into view for a brief instant, then they're gone.

I've been watching the ray draw closer as the minutes pass. It's creeping up the bedcovers, closer, ever closer. When it gets to the top, I think I'll pull the covers over my head, and hide until it's past.

No I won't. I'll get up. There! I've made my decision.

Dad's waiting for me at the breakfast table. As I enter, he stands and hugs me, and gives me a little fatherly peck on the cheek. There's a bright blue envelope lying on my place mat, marked “Tania.”

I don't look at the other end of the table. I try really hard not to look there, because I think Dad'll get all upset. No. That's not true. I try really hard not to look there, because I know I'll get upset. Especially today, the first birthday that Mum's not been there.

Of course, even picking up the card, I'm reminded of Mum, simply because it's not her handwriting on the envelope.

Dad's waiting for me to open it. “Go on,” he urges gently.

Inside the envelope there's a card. “Happy birthday to a wonderful daughter.” It's a reproduction hedgehog design, straight out of the '90s. Inside: “To Tania, With all our love on your birthday, Dad. Thank you for helping me through it all.”

Our love.

Darn it, Dad, you're making me cry.

“There's something else, Tania. Not exactly a birthday present, but it came through a few days ago. It's a policy we had on your mum's life. It finally paid out. This is your share.”

It is a holo-cheque, for five hundred Basics, encrypted with my PTI, so that only I can spend it.

“Dad, I don't want this. It's…”