‘I’m going to tell you something,’ I say. ‘And you have to promise not to tell anyone. OK?’
He nods, though he looks uncertain. I sit up next to him and make sure he’s looking at me before I begin. Colours and lights blaze across him. He’s so luminous I can see his bones, and the world behind his eyes.
‘I’m not sick any more.’ I’m so excited it’s difficult to speak. ‘I need to stay here in this wood. I need to keep away from the modern world and all its gadgets and then I won’t be sick. You can stay with me if you want. We’ll build things, shelters and traps. We’ll grow vegetables.’
Adam’s eyes are full of tears. Looking at him cry is like being pulled from a mountain.
‘Tessa,’ he says.
Above his shoulder there’s a hole in the sky, and through it, a satellite’s static chatter makes my teeth tremble. Then it disappears and there’s only yawning emptiness.
I put my finger on his lips. ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t say anything.’
Fifteen
‘I’m on line,’ Dad says, pointing at his laptop. ‘Do you want to do your restless pacing somewhere else?’
The light from the computer flickers in his glasses. I sit down on the chair opposite him.
‘That’s annoying as well,’ he says, without looking up.
‘Me sitting here?’
‘No.’
‘Me tapping the table?’
‘Listen,’ he says, ‘there’s a doctor here who’s developed a system called bone breathing. Ever heard of that?’
‘No.’
‘You have to imagine your breath as a warm colour, then breathe in through the left foot, up the leg to the hip and then out the same way. Seven times, then the right leg the same. Want to give it a try?’
‘No.’
He takes off his glasses and looks at me. ‘It’s stopped raining. Why don’t you take a blanket and sit in the garden? I’ll let you know when the nurse gets here.’
‘I don’t want to.’
He sighs, puts his glasses back on and goes back to his laptop. I hate him. I know he watches me leave. I hear his small sigh of relief.
All the bedroom doors are shut, so it’s gloomy in the hallway. I go up the stairs on all fours, sit at the top and look down. The gloom has movement to it. Maybe I’m beginning to see things other people can’t. Like atoms. I bump down on my bum and crawl back up again, enjoying the squash of carpet beneath my knees. There are thirteen stairs. Every time I count them it’s the same.
I curl up at the foot of the stairs. This is where the cat sits when she wants to trip people over. I’ve always wanted to be a cat. Warm and domesticated when you want to be, wild when you don’t.
The doorbell rings. I curl myself tighter.
Dad comes out to the hallway. ‘Tessa!’ he says. ‘For Christ’s sake!’
Today’s nurse is new. She’s wearing a tartan skirt and is stout as a ship. Dad looks disappointed.
‘This is Tessa,’ he says, and points at me where I lie on the carpet.
The nurse looks shocked. ‘Did she fall?’
‘No, she’s refused to leave the house for nearly two weeks, and it’s sending her crazy.’
She comes over and looks down at me. Her breasts are huge and wobble as she holds out her hand to pull me up. Her hand’s as big as a tennis racket. ‘I’m Philippa,’ she says, as if that explains anything.
She leads me into the lounge and helps me to a seat, lowers herself squarely down opposite me.
‘So,’ she says, ‘not feeling too good today?’
‘Would you be?’
Dad shoots me a warning glance. I don’t care.
‘Any shortness of breath or nausea?’
‘I’m on anti-emetics. Have you actually read my case file?’
‘Excuse her,’ Dad says. ‘She’s had a bit of leg pain recently, nothing else. The nurse who saw her last week said she was doing well. Sian, I think her name was – she’s aware of the medication regime.’
I snort through my nose. He tries to make it sound casual, but it doesn’t wash with me. Last time Sian was here he offered her supper and made a right idiot of himself.
‘The team tries to provide continuity,’ Philippa says, ‘but it’s not always possible.’ She turns back to me, dismissing Dad and his sorry love life.
‘Tessa, you’ve got quite a bit of bruising on your arms.’
‘I climbed a tree.’
‘It suggests your platelets are low. Have you got any major activities planned for this week?’
‘I don’t need a transfusion!’
‘We’ll do a blood test anyway, to be on the safe side.’
Dad offers her coffee, but she declines. Sian would’ve said yes.
‘My dad can’t cope,’ I tell Philippa as he goes out to the kitchen in a sulk. ‘He does everything wrong.’
She helps me off with my shirt. ‘And how does that make you feel?’
‘It makes me laugh.’
She gets gauze and antiseptic spray from her medical case, puts on sterile gloves and holds my arm up so she can clean around the portacath. We both wait for it to dry.
‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ I ask her.
‘I’ve got a husband.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Andy.’
She looks uncomfortable saying his name out loud. I see different people all the time and they never introduce themselves properly. They like knowing all about me though.
‘Do you believe in God?’ I ask her.
She sits back in her chair and frowns. ‘What a question!’
‘Do you?’
‘Well, I suppose I’d like to.’
‘What about heaven? Do you believe in that?’
She rips a sterile needle from its package. ‘I think heaven sounds nice.’
‘That doesn’t mean it exists.’
She looks at me sternly. ‘Well, let’s hope it does.’
‘I think it’s a great big lie. When you’re dead, you’re dead.’
I’m beginning to get to her now: she’s looking flustered. ‘And what happens to all that spirit and energy?’
‘It turns to nothing.’
‘You know,’ she says, ‘there are support groups, places you can meet other young people in the same position as you.’
‘No one’s in the same position as me.’
‘Is that how it feels?’
‘That’s how it is.’
I lift my arm so she can draw blood through the portacath. I’m half robot, with plastic and metal embedded under my skin. She draws blood into a syringe and discards it. It’s such a waste, that first syringe tainted with saline. Over the years, nurses must have thrown a body-full of my blood away. She draws a second syringe, transfers it to a bottle and scribbles my name in blue ink on the label.
‘That’s you done,’ she says. ‘I’ll ring in an hour or so and let you know the results. Anything else before I go?’
‘No.’
‘Have you got enough meds? Do you want me to drop into the GP’s and pick up any repeat prescriptions?’
‘I don’t need anything.’
She heaves herself out of the chair and looks down at me solemnly.
‘The community team offer a lot of support that you might not be aware of, Tessa. We can help you get back to school, for instance, even if it’s only part-time, even if it’s only for a few weeks. It might be worth thinking about trying to normalize your situation.’
I laugh right up at her. ‘Would you go to school if you were me?’
‘I might get lonely here by myself all day.’
‘I’m not by myself.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘But it’s tough on your dad.’
She’s a cow. You’re not supposed to say things like that. I stare at her. She gets the message then.
‘Goodbye, Tessa. I’m going to pop into the kitchen and have a word, then I’ll be off.’
Despite the fact that she’s fat already, Dad offers her fruitcake and coffee, and she accepts! The only thing we should be offering guests are plastic bags to wrap around their shoes. We should have a giant X marked on the gate.