‘Watch,’ Adam says.
He lies flat on his back and flaps his arms and legs. He yells at how cold it is on his neck, his head. He jumps up again, stamps the snow off his trousers.
‘For you,’ he says. ‘A snow angel.’
It’s the first time he’s looked at me since I wrote on the wall. His eyes are sad.
‘Ever had snow ice cream?’ I ask.
I send him indoors for a bowl, icing sugar, vanilla, a spoon. He follows my instructions, scoops handfuls of snow into the bowl, whisks all the ingredients together. It turns to mush, goes brown, tastes weird. It isn’t how I remember it when I was a kid.
‘Maybe it’s yoghurt and orange juice.’
He rushes off. Comes back. We try again. It’s worse, but this time he laughs.
‘Beautiful mouth,’ I tell him.
‘You’re shivering,’ he says. ‘You should go in.’
‘Not without you.’
He looks at his watch.
I say, ‘What do you call a snowman in the desert?’
‘I need to go, Tess.’
‘A puddle.’
‘Seriously.’
‘You can’t leave now, there’s a snowstorm. I’ll never find my way back home.’
I undo my zip. I let my coat fall open so my shoulder’s exposed. Earlier, Adam spent minutes kissing this particular bit of shoulder. He blinks at me. Snow falls onto his eyelashes.
He says, ‘What do you want from me, Tess?’
‘Night time.’
‘What do you really want?’
I knew he’d understand.
‘I want you to be with me in the dark. To hold me. To keep loving me. To help me when I get scared. To come right to the edge and see what’s there.’
He looks really deeply at me. ‘What if I get it wrong?’
‘It’s impossible to get wrong.’
‘I might let you down.’
‘You won’t.’
‘I might get freaked out.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I just want you to be there.’
He gazes at me across the winter garden. His eyes are very green. In them I see his future stretching before him. I don’t know what he sees in mine. But he’s brave. I always knew it about him. He takes my hand and leads me back inside.
Upstairs I feel heavier, like the bed glued itself to me and is sucking me down. Adam takes ages getting undressed, then stands there shivering in his boxer shorts.
‘Shall I get in then?’
‘Only if you want to.’
He rolls his eyes, as if there’s no winning with me. It’s so difficult to get what I want. I worry that people only give me things because they feel guilty. I want Adam to want to be here. How will I ever tell the difference?
‘Shouldn’t we tell your mum?’ I ask as he climbs in beside me.
‘I’ll tell her tomorrow. She’ll survive.’
‘You’re not doing this because you feel sorry for me, are you?’
He shakes his head. ‘Stop it, Tess.’
We wrap ourselves together, but the shiver of snow is still with us; our hands and feet are ice. We cycle our legs to keep warm. He rubs me, strokes me. He scoops me into his arms again. I feel his prick grow. It makes me laugh. He laughs too, but nervously, as if I’m laughing at him.
‘Do you want me?’ I say.
He smiles. ‘I always want you. But it’s late, you should go to sleep.’
The snow makes the world outside brighter. Light filters through the window. I fall asleep watching the glimmer and sheen of it on his skin.
When I wake up, it’s still night and he’s asleep. His hair is dark on the pillow, his arm slung across me as if he can hold me here. He sighs, stops breathing, stirs, breathes again. He’s in the middle bit of sleep – a part of this world, but also part of another. This is strangely comforting to me.
His being here doesn’t stop my legs hurting though. I leave him the duvet, wrap myself in the blanket and stumble to the bathroom for codeine.
When I come out, Dad’s on the landing in his dressing gown. I’d forgotten he even existed. He’s not wearing slippers. His toes look very long and grey.
‘You must be getting old,’ I tell him. ‘Old people get up in the night.’
He pulls his dressing gown tighter. ‘I know Adam’s in there with you.’
‘And is Mum in there with you?’
This seems an important point, but he chooses to ignore it. ‘You did this without my permission.’
I look down at the carpet and hope he gets this over with quickly. My legs feel full up, as if my bones are swelling. I shuffle my feet.
‘I’m not out to spoil the fun, Tess, but it’s my job to look after you and I don’t want you hurt.’
‘Bit late for that.’
I meant it as a joke, but he’s not smiling. ‘Adam’s just a kid, Tessa. You can’t rely on him for everything: he might let you down.’
‘He won’t.’
‘And if he does?’
‘Then I’ve still got you.’
It’s weird hugging him in the dark on the landing. We hold each other tighter than I ever remember. Eventually he eases his grip and looks at me very seriously.
‘I’ll always be here for you, Tess. Whatever you do, whatever you still have left to do, whatever your stupid list makes you do. You need to know that.’
‘There’s hardly anything left.’
Number nine is Adam moving in. Deeper than sex. It’s about facing death, but not alone. My bed, no longer frightening, but a place where Adam lies warm and waiting for me.
Dad kisses the top of my head. ‘Off you go then.’
He goes off to the bathroom.
I go back to Adam.
Thirty-one
Spring is a powerful spell.
The blue. The clouds high up and puffy. The air warmer than it’s been for weeks.
‘The light was different this morning,’ I tell Zoey. ‘It woke me up.’
She shifts her weight in the deck chair. ‘Lucky you. Leg cramp woke me up.’
We’re sitting under the apple tree. Zoey’s brought a blanket from the sofa and wrapped herself up in it, but I’m not cold at all. It’s one of those mellow days in March that feel as if the earth is tipping forwards. Daisies sprinkle the lawn. Clusters of tulips sprout at the edges of the fence. The garden even smells different – moist and secretive.
‘You all right?’ Zoey says. ‘You look a bit weird.’
‘I’m concentrating.’
‘On what?’
‘Signs.’
She groans softly, picks up the holiday brochure from my lap and flicks through the pages. ‘I’ll just torture myself with this then. Tell me when you’re done.’
I’ll never be done.
That rip in the clouds where the light falls through.
That brazen bird flying in a straight line right across the sky.
There are signs everywhere. Keeping me safe.
Cal’s got into it too now, although in a more practical way. He calls them ‘keep-death-away spells’.
He’s put garlic above all the doors and at the four corners of my bed. He’s made KEEP OUT boards for the front and back gates.
Last night, when we were watching TV, he tied our legs together with a skipping rope. We looked as if we were entering a three-legged race.
He said, ‘No one will take you if you’re tied to me.’
‘They might take you as well!’
He shrugged, as if that didn’t matter to him. ‘They won’t get you in Sicily either; they won’t know where you are.’
Tomorrow we fly. A whole week in the sun.
I tease Zoey with the brochure, run my finger over the volcanic beach with black sand, the sea edged by mountains, the cafés and piazzas. In some of the photos, Mount Etna squats massively in the background, remote and fiery.
‘The volcano’s active,’ I tell her. ‘It sparks at night, and when it rains, everything gets covered in ash.’
‘It’s not going to rain though, is it? It must be about thirty degrees.’ She slaps the brochure shut. ‘I can’t believe your mum gave her ticket to Adam.’
‘My dad can’t believe it either.’
Zoey thinks about this for a moment. ‘Wasn’t getting them back together on your list?’